


Stacking the Deck

by 0_jtboi_SR2



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, or more like 40000 words of will you idiots kiss already, yes this is a soulmate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-06-29 17:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15733956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0_jtboi_SR2/pseuds/0_jtboi_SR2
Summary: Everly had always been good with odds.  She learned quickly from the family card games. How to play her opponent, yes, but also counting cards.  Calculating the probability of each hand, of one outcome occurring over another.  It was why she was always beating her brothers--the ability to make a split second determination and knowing how much to bet.  As she laid awake in her bedroll, staring up at the ceiling of her quarters, she thought of the Seeker.That was what Everly knew--her odds.  And they were not good.





	1. The Odds

The mark didn’t appear until the day after she was born. 

It should have been an auspicious occasion. Some may have called it fortuitous--the first Trevelyan in generations to bear one, the first in the entire Free Marches in years. And that would have been true, if the child’s mother hadn't also lay dying. Delirious and weak from blood loss, her final request was to hold her daughter. She had pressed her pale lips to the infant’s brow, whispered against a fine dusting of hair, handed her back to her father. Then she was gone. The next morning, the mark was there, clear as daybreak. 

Immediately, the chantry mothers and sisters had descended upon the household. Surely Sandor Trevelyan, left now with three children to care for and an estate to run, could not be expected to raise them all without a wife. Especially not a young girl bearing a mark. And such as ostentatious one, too; stretching the entire expanse of her back, from left shoulder to right hip, where it curled over her hipbone in an almost teasing manner. The manner of the mark, with a very specific naming convention, suggested a royal lineage outside of the Free Marches. Would it not be best for the girl to stay in the chantry, to be raised in the service of the Maker while the exact title and position of the family could be determined? To protect her from dynastic politics or even an assassination attempts, lest some suitor catch wind of it and try to eliminate a perceived rival? And, of course, it would be one less mouth to feed, and Sandor could focus on his sons, ensuring his name would carry on. 

Sandor refused. No, he would not send his daughter to be raised by strangers. His wife, her mother, would never have allowed that. She would live in her family home and grow up with her brothers, mark or no mark. So he had thanked the mothers and the sisters and all the clerics, and politely, but firmly, sent them on their way. 

Later that night, with his new child asleep on his chest, he trailed his fingers down her tiny back and wondered about the woman who apparently had a claim on his daughter's heart. 

***

The years passed. As she grew, the mark became less and less prominent. It still reached across her back, but with each new season, the lettering gradually shrank and took up less space. She was still small, but eventually filled out into a tight, wiry frame, built from hours of working on the estate and hunting and playing all through the surrounding woods. Even though her brothers were nearly twice her size, she could easily keep up with them and was much, much faster. When they were younger, they used to both tease her about the mark, calling out each ostentatious syllable in a sing-song voice. Taunting her that she would be married to a princess (because of course it had to be some kind of princess; who else would have a name like that?) and they would be trapped in a tower, wearing matching frilly dresses. They would continue until she finally ran off to tell their father, who would promptly amble over and cuff both of his sons across the ears. Eventually, the teasing stopped completely. Especially once she got big enough to jab her nearest brother in the nose and run off without being caught. That, and also the fact that once she turned ten, she could best either one of them with her bow. And then when she turned twelve, she started regularly taking their coin during the family card game. 

Robb was the eldest, tall but thin, with a wild mane of curly hair. Eventually, more and more of his time went to learning about the management of the estate, as expected from the first-born. And also expected of the first-born, he started courting the daughters of other noble houses in the Marches. Brayden, shorter than his brother but astonishingly barrel-chested, was built for soldiering and not much else. He simply waited patiently for the time to come when he would join the Templars, which he did, quietly and without fanfare, after the harvest of his sixteenth year. 

And then there was Everly. 

Her role had never been clear. She was too small to fight (something Brayden thought was his personal job to constantly remind her of) and as both the youngest and a woman, she had no claim to her father’s land. Once she reached the appropriate age, she assumed she would be expected to marry, to be shoved off on some idiot noble boy with a better familial estate. Or to be packed up and shipped to the chantry, where she would be tossed into a set of lay sister robes and spend the rest of her life being told to sit down and be quiet. Both thoughts had always made her stomach twist uncomfortably, but Sandor had never forced either option on her. And she knew why. While she had been blessed with the love and affection of a truly attentive father, there was really only one reason he indulged her aimlessness. 

He was protecting her. Whether it was from the individual person or the family of the name she bore, Everly wasn’t sure. But what she was sure of was the look in her father’s eyes whenever she asked about the mark. It was fear. 

***

“But I don’t want to go.” Everly huffed, plopping muddy boots on the table and crossing her arms defiantly. 

Robb rolled his eyes and scratched at the stubble on his chin. They’ve had this conversation at least half a dozen times in as many days, and it always ended the same--with Everly’s flat-out refusal and Robb calling her a stubborn brat. Everly preferred _steadfast_. It sounded better in her head. 

“I don’t care that you don’t want to go,” Robb said, yet again. “We need someone to represent the family. And it’s going to be you.” He jabbed a finger in her face. His grey eyes--the same color as hers, their mother’s eyes--darkened in irritation. He was resorting to ordering now, which she didn’t appreciate. Although, she knew she wasn’t really giving him much choice. She cast a glance upwards, towards the top floor of the home where her father’s room was. 

Robb was right, which was part of the problem. The entire problem, actually. For most of her life, Everly had been shielded from the details of intra-familial politicking, but now she could no longer be given that luxury. The state of their name, their father’s name, was now tenuous at best. As soon as word of his illness spread, all manner of aunts and uncles and cousins three times removed appeared out of nowhere, like an incursion of cockroaches. All jockeying for position to lay claim to the estate, confident that the young children of Sandor Trevelyan would not be savvy enough to withstand their too-clever maneuvering. 

If the extended family knew, though, the true extent of Sandor’s condition, they would be beating down the door with nothing to stop them. It had begun gradually enough, as all things insidious do--a forgotten chore, a slip of a name, the telling of a story twice over. But then came the violent mood swings and the clear lapses in attention. And then, just like that, her father was gone. The large, gregarious man with twinkling blue eyes was now a shrunken husk, communicating only by grunts and vague gestures. And even those attempts were becoming few and far between. 

She knew Robb would do everything in his power to protect both the estate and the honor of their father’s name. And, ultimately, she trusted him. But she still didn’t understand why part of his plan to do so hinged upon her attending a chantry-sponsored conclave all the the way in fucking Ferelden. Whenever she pressed him on this, all Robb could offer were vague statements about how her attendance would “look good” and “be good for the family”. And he never quite explained what this conclave was expected to accomplish. War had begun, yes, but she doubted that what had been sparked in Kirkwall could be solved by a bunch of doddering old ladies in funny hats. 

“You go,” Everly said. “Someone needs to take care of Father.” 

Before Robb could reply, the kitchen door swung open and Siobhan, his wife, appeared. Striking as always, with sharp green eyes and golden blonde hair cropped short to frame her face, and just now showing with their first child. Usually talkative and witty, the first few months of her pregnancy has sapped most of her energy. And patience. She immediately shoved Everly’s boots off the table. 

Siobhan grumbled under her breath, disbelieving that they were still at this, and headed for the water pitcher. Her hand trembled slightly, and she swayed on her feet, unsteady. Robb was at her side in an instant, helping her into the nearest chair. Siobhan waved him away irritably. She was proud in a way that Everly didn’t understand; there was no shame in her exhaustion or nausea, yet she refused to be cared for. As if she and the child were locked in combat and she could not afford to show weakness. It was practically guaranteed that when they came, the new arrival would be a stubborn little shit. Just like the rest of the family. 

Everly put her boots back up on the table, ignoring the glares she received in return. Robb couldn’t leave, no matter how much Siobhan insisted she was fine. But she couldn’t leave, either, with the condition their father was in. Brayden hadn’t been heard from in months. She opened her hands wide, as if to say: look around. Pleaded with him one more time. Robb remained unmoved. 

Muttering to herself, Everly waved her hands and a deck of cards appeared. She fanned the entire deck out in her hand with a flourish, then folded them all back together and cut the cards one-handed. She slapped the deck on the table. “We draw for it. High card wins.” 

Robb smiled thinly. Everly knew this would work. With the three of them--loud, hard-headed, obnoxious--this was often the way Sandor resolved disagreements. The cards were fair, he always said. You lost. Now stop bothering your brothers. 

Everly drew first, the Robb. They kept their cards facing down at their sides, then counted in unison. On ‘three’ the cards were brought up to show, each holding their card out so the other could see. Robb immediately brightened, and Everly turned her hand to see the two of songs staring back at her. She exhaled loudly, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. 

“Fuck.” 

***

She woke on cold, damp stone. Blinked once, twice, before she realized she was actually on her side, face pressing uncomfortably into the hard surface. The ground reeked of piss and shit and vomit and instantly her stomach curdled. She tried to straighten, to pull her face away from the disgusting stone, and immediately hissed. Nausea was now accompanied by pain rocketing down her spine. She had no idea where the hell she was, or what the hell happened. All she knew was that it sure as shit didn’t feel good. The thought was vaguely disconcerting. 

Eventually, she made it to her knees, realizing for the first time that she was in shackles and her left hand was glowing. Not just glowing, but _pulsating_ with energy. It beat in time with her heart, sending waves of power through her arm all the way up to her shoulder. Something coiled just beneath the palm of her hand, like a serpent ready to strike, and when she tried to make a fist, a plume of green sparks exploded from her fingers. 

Her disconcertation was suddenly much less vague. 

Before the full-blown panic set in, the door opened with a slam. A shaft of blinding light cut through the room. Everly raised her hands, shackles clanging, and squinted into the glare. An imposing figure moved towards her, heavy footfalls echoing off the mold-covered stone. A rich, thickly accented voice spoke. 

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.” 

The figure stepped into the beam of light. Everly's eyes widened. 

The woman was breathtaking. Tall, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped hair and cheekbones carved from stone. Her eyes were dark and piercing, full lips pulled back into a snarl. She moved with a grace and easy power that seemed impossible given the full set of armor she wore. Everly opened her mouth and tried to reply. Nothing came out. 

“Answer me,” the woman demanded, stalking closer. She radiated heat and danger. 

“I don’t-I don’t know what happened.” It was all she could manage, with was excruciatingly pathetic, considering the large sword the woman carried and her obvious urge to use it. Although, Everly quickly decided there were worse ways to go than being struck down by the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. She bit her lip and looked away, keenly aware that the physical reactions to fear and arousal were far too similar. 

The woman either didn’t know her effect upon her poor prisoner, or couldn’t be bothered to care. She continued to pepper her with questions, none of which were answered satisfactorily. Everly would like to think that she had nothing to do with what happened at the Conclave--especially the Divine’s death--but she didn’t remember enough to even argue for her innocence. And that alone seemed like plenty for the woman. She flexed her arm and the massive sword rose up. All it would take was a flick of the wrist to end it all. 

Everly squeezed her eyes shut and grimaced, preparing herself for the final blow. She thought she should start praying, but couldn't remember any. Dammit. She should have gone to chantry services more. 

But the woman hesitated. It took Everly a moment to realize that someone else arrived, speaking in a soft voice.

“Cassandra, don’t. We need her.” 

The name almost cleaved her in two. 

_Cassandra._

***

The Seeker was gorgeous. And intimidating. And inescapable, which made the former two items all the more difficult to deal with. At first, it was such a sudden change that it was almost disorienting. After all, the Seeker had been perfectly content with blaming Everly for the explosion at the Conclave. But once she was named Herald and the Inquisition reborn, the Seeker’s opinion shifted overnight. (She even formally apologized to Everly for her behavior, owning up to her own incorrect assumption and promising never to do it again, with such honesty that Everly was yet again rendered speechless in her presence. It was aggravating. No one was that perfect.) Now the Seeker had charged herself with the Herald’s personal safety, and even when Everly tried to shake her by taking an unexpected turn or darting toward the crest of a hill, the Seeker was always a step behind her. 

It wasn’t that Everly minded that much. She did feel safer standing in battle next to the Seeker--and who wouldn’t, really?--but most of the time is was just too damn distracting. A catalog had started in Everly’s head, of its own accord, steadily tracking all of the Seeker’s ticks and quirks and idiosyncrasies. Within days, she knew the sound of the Seeker’s boots against the ground (heavy, yet with discernible rhythm), the cadence of her battle cry (it started high, then lowered an octave), and even her preferred fighting techniques (she favored her shield side, so much so that Everly wondered if she was left-handed). 

At Haven, it was even worse. When the Seeker wasn’t meeting with her and her advisors, she was in the training yard, destroying both practice dummies and Cullen’s men with equal efficiency. Everly only had to take one step outside the chantry and the Seeker was there, running roughshod over the entire yard. It was impossible not to stare, and her brain would start the dreadful cataloging again. In only one afternoon, she had the entirety of the Seeker’s routine memorized. It had been unexpectedly warm that day, and the Seeker had stripped down to a short-sleeved tunic. Everly had kept her head down, staring into the ground as she hurried past. 

To distract herself, she began taking lessons from Leliana. There, in the spymaster’s tent, she could avoid the Seeker’s spectacle. The grunts and frustrated noises were easily drowned out by the other soldiers, the clashing of metal on metal all bleeding together into one indistinguishable din. It was almost a relief to be able to hide from the Seeker’s presence, her attention finally freed to focus on all that she needed to do and learn as Herald. 

Leliana was a willing teacher, and Everly found her lectures to be far more interesting than Josephine’s--something she felt surprisingly guilty about--and she hung on every word. In a kind but aloof manner, Leliana spoke of how Everly should move through the world, on what to expect as she traveled through Ferelden. Everly knew she was not built for war. But she could watch. She could listen. It was just like playing cards, Leliana told her fondly: never tip your hand. Let people make assumptions. Watch how they react, what they say. Never tell anyone what you’re thinking. 

Where, precisely, she could stab a man so he wouldn’t make a sound. Only should the need arise, of course. 

Although she thought most of it was a bit too dramatic, she still found it fascinating and she dared not say anything. Leliana, after all, was killing darkspawn when Everly was just a child, hiding under her blankets at night and praying the Blight never found its way across the sea. 

One day they took a walk, leaving the training grounds to amble about the outskirts of the village. It was there, just beyond the giant trebuchets, where Leliana asked the question.

“So, is it true?”

Everly stopped walking. 

Never tip your hand. 

She thought back to the morning she left for the Conclave, of the final words Robb had spoken to her. Dawn had barely broken and they were at the stable. After securing her bags, Robb had shoved her onto the saddle, her own legs still leaden and useless from sleep. And then he had stood there, one hand lightly holding the charger’s reins, the other reaching up to rest on top of her own. Eyes imploring. You cannot tell anyone about your mark, he had said. Please. People have been killed over lesser things. 

Her silence was the only answer the spymaster needed. Leliana nodded and they resumed walking. “My contacts turned up rumors of a young Trevelyan bearing a soulmark. The first in generations. I had wondered if they were right.” The explanation was appreciated but unnecessary; Everly had learned there was no point in asking how Leliana came by her terrifying amounts of information. The spymaster continued. “And what do you know of them?”

Everly shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant. Even though the topic made her feel anything but. “We looked into it once when I was younger. Not much came of it.” She paused. “It’s complicated.” 

“How so?”

“She--my mark--is royalty.” 

The only evidence of surprise was a slight arch of a brow. “Josephine will need to know,” Leliana said. “This will require somewhat of a deft touch, should rumors begin to spread. She understands how to handle situations like these.” 

There was something ominous about Leliana’s statement; the ambassador was skilled, certainly, but what experience did she have with soulmarks? Everly decided not to ask. They approached the entrance to Haven’s chantry, and just beyond that, the training yard. Everly couldn’t help but tense up. As if on cue, Leliana leaned over and gave her a friendly nudge. 

“So,” she asked, eyes twinkling. “Have you met her yet?”

In the distance, Everly saw the familiar figure by the practice dummies. The sound of steel striking wood filtered through the courtyard. 

“No.” 

***

This was what Everly knew. 

Her father had walked a fine line the majority of her life--avoiding the subject of her soulmark, yet never making her feel self-conscious or ashamed. And it had worked, mostly, through most of her life. But she was stubborn like her brothers, and in the spring of her fifteenth year, she decided she had waited long enough. The fact that a few weeks prior she had shared her first kiss with the daughter of a blacksmith two towns over was beside the point. 

Sandor finally sent away for the records, testing the outer reach of his influence. It did not extend far. The reply took months. Spring had turned to summer, which gave way to fall, and by the time the scrolls had arrived Everly had nearly given up hope. She had also forgotten about the blacksmith's’ daughter and instead taken up up with a distant Cousland cousin. Also, her father had begun acting strangely that entire time, his memory lapses and irritable outbursts becoming more pronounced. It seemed like hardly the time to discuss the matter, with more pressing issues closing in on the whole family. 

But one night Sandor was lucid and present. And so they had sat at the heavy oak table, in the formal dining room they never used, and unfurled the family tree of Nevarra’s most prominent royal house. 

The scrolls had been hastily transcribed, copied from the official records as a courtesy and nothing more. Eighteen branches stretched over centuries, all with practically identical naming conventions. The first name of the mark was the most prevalent female name of the family, some derivative of Casper. Two of them came from a branch tied to the Van Markum family--but had the order been inverted, it would indicate a small line traced to the royal houses of Antiva. One name was common in the line directly descended from Mathas the Glorious, one of the most famous dragon hunters in all of Thedas. The others were impossible to trace, the great Nevarran Purge having wiped out entire branches, and the transcriber apparently losing interest in expounding any further. 

It had been frustrating, to say the least. The woman remained a mystery. She had the most common name in all of Nevarra, from the largest family in all of Nevarra. The only way Everly would be able to narrow her search further was to actually travel there and request admittance to royal archives. One look from her father had told her that wasn’t happening. It was too dangerous, he had tried to explain. Traveling that far was not safe, and there was no telling how she would be received. They were a hard people, the fierce dragon hunters; the records told the same story of violence and betrayal over and over for generations. Who knew how they would treat an interloper like herself. Sandor had then placed a massive hand on her shoulder and gave her a soft, sad smile. Someday, perhaps. But not now. 

She had been disappointed, certainly, but then her father’s illness finally reared its head, and she no longer had time to concern herself with such things. But for weeks after, her dreams had been filled with images of blood and dragonfire. And a dark figure hovering in the distance, just outside her reach. Faceless. 

Everly had always been good with odds. She learned quickly from the family card games. How to play her opponent, yes, but also counting cards. Calculating the probability of each hand, of one outcome occurring over another. It was why she was always beating her brothers--the ability to make a split second determination and knowing how much to bet. As she laid awake in her bedroll, staring up at the ceiling of her quarters, she thought of the Seeker. 

That was what Everly knew--her odds. And they were not good. 

***

The makeshift archery rage was a much-needed respite, and Sera was a much-needed friend. They spent most of their afternoons there, setting up targets and trick shots, as each tried to one up the other. Sera was the only other member of the Inquisition that could match her shot for shot. Varric was good, too, but he wielded Bianca more like a battering ram than anything. Sera was actually an artist with a bow and arrow, although she would never admit to it, and every time Everly tried to give that compliment to Sera she was thanked by a loud raspberry right in her face. 

They yell and jump and run, doing flips and cartwheels while they attempted impossible shots from impossible angles. Any item not nailed down was in danger of being thrown in the air and obliterated by arrows: fruit, bottles, empty sacks, a wayward boot. Everly’s favorite, though, was to shoot playing cards; she taught Sera how to hold each one between two fingers, and the way to flick her wrist to throw it. Her entire deck--the one she had brought from home--was shredded in a matter of days, and she had to steal another one from Varric when he wasn’t looking, an escapade Sera was particularly excited to be a part of. The elf didn’t seem to care at all about the green glowing mark on Everly’s hand, or her supposed title. In fact, Sera was probably the only one who didn’t, and as the Inquisition steadily grew and more people looked to her for answers she didn’t have, she was grateful for Sera’s indifference. 

But, on occasion, their nonsense would be interrupted. Everly always felt the rhythmic steps before she heard them, before the figure came into view. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She ground her teeth and tried to ignore it. 

“What are you two doing?” The Seeker demanded. 

Everly lowered her bow. At the other end of the yard was Sera, in profile view, standing deathly still. Her hands were clasped behind her back, a bright red apple hanging out of her mouth. Everly turned towards the Seeker. She blinked innocently. 

“Nothing.”

The lecture that followed was unlike any Everly had heard before. The Seeker sputtered about how dangerous that was, how the Herald should be doing proper archery drills, how there were more important ways to spend their time. Sera tore a chunk from the apple with her teeth and began yelling back with her mouth full, spraying juice and spittle as she tossed out choice phrases about large sticks and their various orientations in the Seeker's backside. 

Everly grumbled under her breath. The Seeker’s presence grated on her, made her feel like a raw nerve--exposed and vulnerable. The only thing that alleviated her daily irritation was the distraction of the range, and now the Seeker had intruded upon that too. It didn’t help that the Seeker also happened to look especially striking that day. Something about the way the late afternoon sun hit her face brought out the gold flecks in her eyes and softened the angles of her cheekbones. Everly wondered what it would be like to kiss the line of her jaw. 

“Drills are boring,” she said. It was the only retort she could think of. She turned away, back towards Sera and the range. 

“Drills are necessary.” 

Of course the Seeker would say something like that. Everly’s fingers twitched. Sera started tossing the apple in the air, still glaring at the Seeker. She glanced down at the cluster of arrows stabbed into the ground at her feet. Before she even knew what was happening, she snatched up two arrows, nocked them, and let them fly. Everly jerked her chin and stared at the Seeker. She didn’t need to look to know that the apple was now stuck to the target just behind Sera, pierced cleanly by both arrows. The elf’s yelp of surprise merely confirmed the fact. 

“You don’t need drills when you never miss.” It was a proud and boastful statement, the kind of sentiment that the Seeker was sure to hate, but Everly didn’t care. Because it was true. This is what she knew, what made sense to her, the only value she brought to the battlefield, and she would not have those skills impugned by the unapproachable, untouchable Seeker. 

Their eyes met. For an instant, she saw something flash across the Seeker’s face that could almost be amusement. But then the Seeker’s jaw tightened and her lips pressed together into a thin line. “Ugh,” she said, and walked away. 

Everly tried very hard not to watch her leave. 

***

When she woke, she thought she was buried alive. 

A beam of wood was an inch away from her nose and she instinctively jerked away. Immediately, two things occurred: her head slammed into another hunk of wood and a searing pain shot up her leg. She blinked rapidly, breathed through clenched teeth, tried to remain calm. Gradually, it came back to her. This wasn’t her coffin, and she wasn’t dead. 

She was trapped under the debris of the wrecked trebuchet. The machine apparently had taken the brunt of the avalanche and saved her from being swept away, but now the gnarled and broken pieces of wood jabbed at her from all angles. She exhaled, slowly, and made herself focus. Debris surrounded her on all sides, and she started wiggling, testing how much space she has to maneuver. Luckily, she could move her head and her appendages. When she tried to bend her left leg though, she was hit with another blinding bolt of pain. She reached down to touch her thigh. Her glove came back covered in blood. A piece of metal bracket was lodged in her upper leg, just above the knee. She couldn’t tell how deep it was. 

Ignoring the pain, she began scooting backwards, still lying on her back. She managed to shimmy free of the wreckage, even as shards of wood left splinters in her face and neck. As she pulled her leg out she tumbled forward and landed face first in the snow. Coughing, she dragged herself to her feet, balancing unsteadily on one leg. 

There was no sign of Corypheus, or his dragon, or Haven for that matter. The avalanche must have buried the entire village. But darkness had fallen now, and the wind and heavy snow were whipping across her face, making her cuts sting even more. She could barely see anything; a few dark shapes in the distance are all that remained of the Inquisition’s former home. 

But first, her leg. Knee-high snow surrounded her, and with the metal impaled in her thigh, there was no way to lift her leg high enough to trudge through the drifts. She turned back to the wreckage behind her, finding a length of rope and yanking it free. She took off her gloves and clenched them between her teeth. Reaching down, she grasped the piece of metal and, after a breath to steady herself, yanked it free with a grunt. Blood flowed freely from the open gash, and he quickly folded the ripped fabric of her breeches over the wound, then wrapped the rope around her thigh. It wasn’t exactly a tourniquet, but hopefully the pressure would staunch the bleeding. She twisted the loose ends around each other and firmly cinched the knot. A cry tore from her throat, muffled as she bit down on her gloves. 

She spun around as best she could, hobbling on her leg, and tried to orient herself. Many times before she had found herself lost in the woods outside the Trevelyan estate, and although she remembered her father’s instructions clearly, they did her no good here. The stars were blocked by heavy clouds. The snow was blinding. There were no landmarks, nothing to guide her. She considered her options, wondering briefly if she should stay put. Just as quickly, she dismissed the idea. Everyone left in Haven had been given strict orders to leave and not look back. Even if a party did return to scout for survivors, it would be days before they organized enough to do so. No. She had to move. But which way?

Warmth suddenly blossomed in her chest and she felt a pull, like something was drawing her away from the wreckage in a specific direction. She hesitated. Was she imagining things now? After all, she probably hit her head when she was tossed around by the avalanche. Or maybe it was a spell, some kind of trap designed to lure her back into Corypheus’s hands. As she stood there, debating, a distinct, forlorn howl rose above the wind. 

Well. That made the decision easier. 

She set off, leaving both the wolves and the remains of Haven behind. Unfortunately, she knew the former would be harder to elude. Each step brought not only agony but fresh blood, oozing through the rope fibers to drip onto the snow. The howls grew closer. She was heading upwind and despite the storm, the pack has certainly caught her scent. She cursed. Her bow and arrow quiver were gone, along with the dagger she kept for close combat. The only weapon she had was her short hunting knife, strapped to her uninjured leg. Meant for skinning deer, it wouldn’t get her far in fighting off even one animal, let alone an entire pack. 

She considered changing direction or trying to find some kind of shelter, but she still couldn’t see. And every time she paused, the feeling grew more insistent, yanking her forward. So she continued blindly plunging ahead, shivering and wracked with pain. She started yet another catalog; this time counting the steps between each howl. The pack seemed right at her heels. She wondered about her odds of getting out of this one. Probably not too good. Wondered what her brothers would think when they heard the news: the great Herald of Andraste, dinner of wolves. Brayden saying far too loudly that any sister of his better have taken a few of the beasts with her, pride and bravado masking his grief. Just like when their father fell ill. Robb would just sigh heavily, with his air of perpetual disappointment. Of course you ran off to face a dragon by yourself. Well, that’s what you get.

The dragon. She thought of the unholy roar as it flew over Haven, the acrid smell as it laid waste to the village. Yes, she admitted to herself, part of her had wanted to see it. To witness an actual living being capable of such devastation. To be undone by heat and flame. She remembered the dreams she had many years ago, of dragonfire and blood, and a tall figure shrouded in mystery. Except now the figure had a face. And a voice. 

Her pace slowed as the wind continued to batter her. How long had she been walking? It was impossible to tell. Hours, days. She couldn’t lift her leg anymore and was reduced to dragging it through the snow drifts. Couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. That feeling was still there, telling her she was going in the right direction, but she could no longer answer. The wolvers were toying with her now, she was sure of it, dancing outside her field of vision. Why waste energy on prey that was clearly about to expire on its own? All they have to do was be patient. She would collapse soon and then oblivion would take her. She hoped it wouldn’t hurt.

A surge of warmth began crawling up the back of neck, prickling her skin. For a moment, she thought the dragon had found her again, that it wasn’t wolves that had been hunting her at all. But then she collided with something solid. Metal. Strong arms wrapped around her and lifted her to her feet like she was nothing more than a sack of flour. 

“Everly.” 

She jerked at the sound of her name. The voice was familiar, but the tone was different. Full of emotion in a way she had never heard before. Her arm was slung across broad shoulders, her toes barely grazed the surface of the snow. Freezing cold armor pressed against her face, but there was heat underneath. Fire. 

“C-Cassandra?” It was as much a prayer for deliverance as a question. 

“I have you,” was all she heard in response. The arms around her tightened, lifting her even higher. Gradually, the pain in her leg subsided. She leaned into the embrace and closed her eyes. Just as darkness took her, she realized she wasn’t cold anymore.


	2. The Ante

At Skyhold there were new rules and procedures, new chores, repairs to schedule. But there were also new pastimes, and Everly could _finally_ get a regular card game going. It had been over a month since their arrival at the fortress and she badly needed a distraction. For several reasons. 

One of the first areas to be restored was obviously meant to be a tavern. Meaning, the first time Everly stepped inside, she declared that it was the tavern. The games started soon after and quickly became a weekly occurrence. Despite her enthusiasm, Everly ceded ground to Varric in the matter, diplomatically allowing him to be the ringleader--and to take all the damn credit. Bull and Krem were regular attendees, as well as Dorian. Sera flitted in and out, usually to play one hand, declare it boring, then knock over a pile of coin on her way to go dance on a table. Still, it was nice to see a group as excited about the card game as she was, although she wondered if they liked it for itself, or because it was a convenient diversion from the very real threat of Corypheus. 

Occasionally, Josephine would join them as well, and whenever she did, Everly made sure the ambassador had more than enough to drink. She was easier to beat that way. On this night, though, Everly’s strategy wasn’t working. Josephine was happily sitting behind a large stack of coin, despite the fact that she was accumulating empty mugs as fast as she was taking their silver. ( _That_ was Bull’s fucking fault; Josephine had been content to start with coppers, but then he had started up with his “go silver or go home” bullshit, and now Everly was twenty pieces in the hole. She decided she would take it out of his pay.) 

Never before had Everly seen someone with the same aptitude for cards as her. Everly’s own skills paled in comparison to Josephine, and she spent nearly every one of their sessions wearing a deep scowl, trying to figure out the ambassador’s method. Josephine must have a perfect memory, that was the only explanation. And, of course, no tells whatsoever. 

During one such game on the last warm night just before autumn, playing against Josephine, Bull, Dorian, and Krem--where she had been certain there was no way Josephine would pull that last drake--Everly petulantly tossed her cards across the table and announced they were going to start inviting Cullen. His coin was easier to take. Josephine just giggled, hiding her smile behind a slender hand. Buried in the back of Everly's mind somewhere was another lesson from her father, one she had never bothered with until now: never play cards with a politician. 

The game continued until the late hours of the night, and the conversation turned toward the inner circle of the Inquisition. Inevitably, they arrived at the Seeker. Everly tried not to appear too interested in the subject. Cassandra was only mentioned in passing, in the context of some story about Cullen’s new recruits, and Everly almost sighed in relief when she thought the moment had passed. 

But then Krem leaned back in his chair, with that suspiciously innocent look of his, propped his feet up on the table and asked, “What book was it the Seeker is reading, again?”

Everly bristled, unsure if he was actually interested in Cassandra, or just wanted to gossip. She had noticed it too, of course; she noticed everything about Cassandra, but it was especially obvious how the Seeker demolished books just as frequently and fervently as practice dummies. 

At this, though, Josephine giggled again and leaned forward, as if to let them all in on a secret. “Cassandra is rereading ‘Swords & Shields.’ Again. It’s her favorite book series.” 

Everly barely had time to process the revelation, before she was hit with a second one, equally as stunning. The expression on Varric’s face swung from surprise to embarrassment, back to surprise, finally settling on wry bemusement. 

“What barrel did she scrape that out of?” he said, scratching at his chin. 

Dorian leaned forward, aghast. “You wrote that filth?”

Krem blushed at the word. Everly choked. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice. 

Varric sighed, acting as if he was being quite put upon, even though his eyes betrayed a twinkle. “I needed to pay back an advance my publisher gave me. I wrote it in a week, and I was drunk the entire time. I probably still owe them money, actually.” 

The table dissolved into laughter. Everly looked around, feeling a sudden urge to defend Cassandra, but the amusement all seemed directed at Varric. Bull laughed heartily, throwing his head back and almost catching his horns on the solid beam of wood behind him. He slapped Krem on the shoulder, who then spilled ale down the front of his coat and cursed loudly in Tevene. Dorian chuckled and raised his own mug in appreciation of the younger man’s linguistic creativity. 

“Be that as it may, you should consider writing the sequel,” Josephine said, twirling two silver pieces in her fingers. “The last volume ended on quite the cliffhanger, I hear.” 

Varric scoffed and waved a hand. “Are you kidding? I’d rather run naked across the battlements than touch that again.” 

Everly spoke before she even realized what she was suggesting. “I’ll take that bet.” Beside her, Josephine let out an audible gasp. 

Varric blinked. “What?”

Too late to turn back now. Everly gathered up the cards and started cutting them one-handed. “Best hand of three hands. I win, you write the sequel.” 

The dwarf looked intrigued. “And if you lose?”

Everly shrugged. She fanned the cards out in her hand, then folded them back up again with a flick of her wrist. Josephine gripped Everly’s arm and said something, tone low and urgent, but Everly paid her no mind. She knew the ambassador’s concern. She compared her stack of coin to Varric’s. They had been about even for most of the night, but something told her she was due for a run. She felt good. She felt cocky. The odds, right now, were on her side. 

She hoped Cassandra would like the book. 

***

At Crestwood, she came down with a cough. 

The dampness had seeped into her lungs, and almost immediately that cough had blossomed into a fever. She thought she was hiding it pretty well, actually; fighting to retake the Caer Bronach and accessing the dam controls with a minimal amount of fuss. But then they--Bull, Blackwell, Vivienne--had descended into the flooded caves beneath the village, and the chill had set in. Her head began to throb. The smell of mold and rot turned her stomach. By the time they reached the massive rift, she was on the edge of vomiting and seeing double. 

When she raised her hand to seal it, the Anchor roaring to life with a spectacular burst of crackling energy, she had nearly collapsed. Embarrassed, she tried to play it off, but Bull and Blackwell had just wordlessly hauled her out of the caves and took her back to camp, Vivienne muttering irritated asides the entire way. 

Then the talking started. Bits and pieces filtered into her tent where she laid trembling on her bedroll. Guards, cooks, requisition officers all gossiped as they walked passed. It was blight sickness, she heard in hushed, panic tones. They all know the story of what had happened to old Crestwood. The village must still be rank with disease. What else could have caused the Inquisitor to fall ill so suddenly? More pious members of the Inquisition wondered out loud if she had incurred the wrath of the Maker somehow, that maybe their path was not so righteous as they thought. Others were convinced it was a spell of some kind. Or maybe poison? 

The rumors blended together until she couldn’t tell them apart anymore, dissolving into mindless chittering at the back of her skull. The only time it stopped was when heavy footsteps approached the tent, followed by a sharp, familiar bark that sent everyone scattering. Everly waited, dizzy and expectant, but after a moment the footfalls receded, leaving her alone. 

They fussed over her constantly, coming in and out to feed her potions and wrap her in heavier blankets, which she immediately kicked off. They gave her updates on Hawke’s warden contact, told her that Crestwood’s fugitive mayor had been captured. Promised they would be going back to Skyhold any moment now. 

No, not they-- _Cassandra_. 

Cassandra was the one who refused to leave her alone, who kept pushing her back down on her bedroll and telling her to rest. Who wiped the sweat from her brow and brushed her hair out of her eyes. It was Cassandra’s cool hands that cupped her face and brought water to her lips. 

But that was impossible. Cassandra had remained at Skyhold. Right? Everly tried to remember, as something cool touched her face again. No, it couldn’t be. Cassandra was fire and blood, not ice. And yet, she could have sworn she heard Cassandra’s voice and felt her touch. Heard the footsteps just outside her tent, on guard, chasing away the gossipers. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, to ask where Cassandra had gone. 

“Hallucinating, my dear?” It was Vivienne that answered. “You’re worse off than I thought.”

She lifted her head, watched as the mage waved her hand, then blew gently onto a piece of cloth. Cold air filled the tent, prickling her skin. 

“Is it blight sickness?” she asked weakly. 

Vivienne scoffed as she placed the frozen cloth across Everly’s forehead. “Superstitious fools. You have a _fever_ , Inquisitor. Nothing more.” 

Everly slept after that, fitfully, dreaming of fire. Then the next thing she knew, she was being wrapped in her blankets, carried out of her tent, and placed on the back of a horse. A massive arm, so big it could be a tree branch, wrapped around her waist and held her in the saddle. Dazed, she peered out at the line of horses and carts and soldiers stretched out in front of her. She looked, but did not see Cassandra. Remembered that she was hallucinating. Or, at least, she was supposed to be hallucinating. 

As the convoy filed out from camp, a roar filled the sky. Cries of alarm went up among the soldiers, and she heard the sounds of crossbows being loaded. Another voice rose up immediately after, telling them all to keep moving. The soldiers acquiesced, putting their weapons away and increasing their pace out of Crestwood. Behind her, there was a loud rumble of discontent. 

She twisted around in her seat, blanket still covering her head, to look up at the sky. The day was mostly overcast, but there was enough light to see the shadow of a dragon, casting lazy circles just above them.   
Everly pointed. “Whoa.” 

In the saddle behind her came a low, gravelly chuckle could only be Bull. “It’s a Northern Hunter,” he said wistfully.

She stared up at the dragon, blinking, her eyes suddenly sensitive in the afternoon light. It was moving away, apparently ignoring them. “Wanna fight it?”

Bull laughed and his arm tightened protectively around her, as if she were about to slide off their horse. “Not right now, boss. We have to get you back.” Everly turned away, lowering her head and huddling tighter under the blankets. 

From there, she didn’t remember anything until she was lifted out of the saddle. Then she heard more voices, the slamming of doors. Felt cold mountain air against her cheek. Skyhold. 

She was being carried, then, into someplace warm and then up a set of stairs. Placed gently on the edge of something soft and yielding. Someone loudly ordered everyone out. There was a basin filled with water and fresh clothes folded in a neat pile, waiting for her. Then she was being undressed, quick hands pulling at sweat-soaked clothes without regard for modesty. She panicked and fought, twisting away when someone grabbed her tunic. Another voice. Lilting, sweetly accented. It’s just me, Josephine said. No one else is here. But still, she refused, shoving at Josephine with her remaining strength until the ambassador stood up and took two steps away. Then she changed her tunic herself. 

A growing commotion was at the door; she could hear raised voices and boots stomping just outside the entrance to her quarters. It grew louder as her remaining strength faded. Josephine was back on the bed, wiping her face with a wet cloth, ignoring the sounds below. The voices--two of them--seemed like they were arguing. Maybe they were under attack. The dragon must have followed them from Crestwood. Just like Corypheus. She was being hunted again. That was where the heat was coming from. 

She tried to stand, but her legs gave way almost immediately. She was pushed back onto the bed and again covered in blankets. Her voice was gone and she couldn’t argue. As she drifted off, Josephine said something and the door opened. There were heavy footfalls on the stairs, and then a tall figure appeared at the foot of her bed, hovering just out of reach. 

***

“This game is _impossible.”_

Cassandra threw her cards down in disgust, scattering them over the bed. Everly crawled forward and flipped over the cards that had been in Cassandra’s hand, then looked at the ones in the discard pile. 

“It’s not impossible if you would stop splitting pairs,” Everly said, holding up one of the knaves Cassandra had tossed away. 

“But drakes are better than knaves.” 

“Not when there’s two of them.” Everly waved the card at Cassandra and grinned. “Remember, the goal is to build the best hand you can, not sabotage yourself at every turn.” 

Cassandra scowled and leaned back in her chair. Everly’s grin widened. She collected the deck and started shuffling. 

It was her fourth day in captivity. Everly didn’t count the first day, since she had technically spent most of it unconscious. The fever, finally, had broken on day two. On day three she was lucid and sitting up in bed. Day four she woke up feeling fucking _great_. 

Upon waking that morning, she had drafted a note to her jailers, demanding fresh clothes and her immediate release. The response was not prompt (she blamed Leliana for that) and by the time she heard the door open, she was almost mad with boredom and had resorted to jumping on the bed for entertainment. Cassandra had then appeared at the top of the stairs, gripping a steaming mug. Everly froze and crossed her arms, pretending she hadn’t been doing anything. Cassandra had merely raised a brow, thrown Everly’s crumpled note in her face--on official Inquisition stationary, no less--and said no. She was to remain inside for at least one more day. Knowing that arguing was fruitless, Everly had collapsed into a dramatic heap on the bed and let out a moan. 

Cassandra had actually been her only visitor over the past several days. Rumors persisted through Skyhold that the Inquisitor had been felled by blight sickness, and her regular pages and attendees had all stayed away. Cassandra, fearless as ever, ignored the talk and came by daily, bringing a broth that she insisted Everly drink. It was thick and hearty and absolutely delicious, and Everly was convinced it was the key to her quick recovery. She also wondered if it was the secret to Cassandra’s fortitude; in all the months since they met, she had yet to see the Seeker so much as blow her nose. 

Everly shuffled one more time, crisply bridging the cards in her palms, then dealt another hand. Cassandra snatched the cards up and fanned them out with her fingers, glowering. Everly took one glance at hers, then laid them down in front of her, waiting to see what Cassandra would do. 

Much to her surprise, the game had been Cassandra’s idea. The times she had visited, she had only stayed long enough for Everly to drink the broth and fall back asleep, and really, Everly had been in no condition to entertain company for very long, anyway. Today, though, after Cassandra had brought more broth and crushed Everly’s dream of freedom, she hovered awkwardly for a few moments, before gesturing to the deck of cards sitting the bedside table. Everly immediately agreed. It was odd for Cassandra to express an interest in cards, and Everly had to wonder what brought it on. Her suspicion was that Varric had been needling Cassandra again while Everly was away at Crestwood, and finally beating him at Wicked Grace was guaranteed to shut him up. For a little while, at least. 

(In the back of her mind, Everly also wondered if the dwarf would try to weasel out of their bet. He better have started that next chapter.) 

Whatever the reason, Everly was more than happy to offer a a few lessons to Cassandra. They played a simplified version of Wicked Grace, something with less complicated hands so that she could explain strategy. They had been going the entire afternoon, but no matter how easy Everly tried to make it, Cassandra had barely improved. In fact, it seemed like every time she tried to explain something, the Seeker got even _worse._ Normally, this amount of sheer ineptitude would had frustrated her to no end, but with Cassandra it was almost...charming. Endearing, even. The utterly capable, reliable warrior, felled by a card game. 

Cassandra tossed a few pieces of copper onto the edge of the bed. Everly saw the bet and raised. Cassandra called. They each discarded, and Everly dealt out the new cards: three to herself, two to Cassandra. The betting then returned to Cassandra, whose scowl deepened as she threw two more pieces in. At least Everly didn’t have to worry about the Seeker’s poker face; she glared at every hand the same way, as if the cards were personally insulting her. 

Everly looked at the cards she had drew. No pairs, high card was eight of serpents. She immediately doubled Cassandra’s bet. A grunt of surprise, then Cassandra raised. They went back and forth several times, Everly continuing with her bluff until Cassandra finally folded. Again, she threw the cards down in disgust. 

Everly gathered the deck. “You should have pushed back,” she said. “I had nothing.”

“I hate this game.” Cassandra crossed her arms and looked away. If Everly didn’t know any better, she would have sworn the Seeker was actually pouting. 

“Do you want to play Shepard’s Six instead?” she asked, fanning the deck out in her hand. 

Cassandra’s head snapped over, eyes flashing. “That is a child’s game!” 

Everly just smiled. “Do you want to play Shepard’s Six?”

Cassandra shifted in her chair, rocking from one hip to another. A pause. “Fine.” 

Everly dealt. 

It was a simple game of collecting matching pairs, but Everly found that she didn’t mind at all. The slow, steady play actually brought a sense of calm that settled over her. Her mind wasn’t racing, overwhelmed by calculating the different hands, trying to anticipate what her opponent would do, how much she could afford to lose. Overwhelmed by the odds. Now, she could just sit with a blanket across her lap, calling out different pairs as the late afternoon sun lazily drifted in through the windows. Soon her eyelids were heavy and she was stifling her yawns, but she still asked for another game. 

Cassandra looked at her for a moment, quietly appraising, then shook her head and started gathering up the cards. The Seeker appeared to have relaxed, too. The usual tension in her shoulders was now gone, her dark hazel eyes somewhat softer. And although she still wore the remains of her earlier scowl, her legendary temper had dissipated, giving way to a steady, easy presence that filled the entire room. 

Everly was struck again by the Seeker’s strong grace. Cassandra’s movements were fluid, her long, callused fingers easily stacking the cards in her palm. It was convenient to dismiss her as nothing more than a blunt warrior, but Everly knew that was not the entire story. There were other chapters there, if you just looked past the cover. She wondered who else realized that. 

Her mind was suddenly fuzzy and her vision began to blur. A steady hum rose up the base of skull, then migrated towards her forehead where it turned into a dull throb. Maybe she wasn’t as well as she thought. Still, she protested when Cassandra grabbed the bearskin sitting on the edge of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders--instinctively squirming away even as Cassandra was firmly telling her to lay back down. The rebellion was short lived, however, her head soon sinking into the pillow. She watched as Cassandra stretched her arms overhead, then approached the bedside table to return the deck of cards. When she reached the table she paused, and Everly knew immediately what had caught her eye. 

The thick book, with a faded oxblood cover and gilded pages, had arrived while Everly was away at Crestwood. It was part of package sent by Siobhan, along with her favorite tunic (one of Robb’s she had stolen years ago), the heavy bearskin, and a few bags of dried fruit and candies. Cassandra started flipping through the book, and she read the title aloud, brushing her fingers over the lettering on the cover: The Queen of the Eastern Seas. Then, the inscription on inside of the cover: ELT. 

“It was my mother’s,” Everly explained. She tried to lift her head as she spoke, but the pillow was far too comfortable. “It’s my favorite book. You should borrow it.”

All of a sudden, the scowl was back. Cassandra’s shoulders hunched forward and her jaw tensed, almost as if she was expecting a physical attack. It was a defensive posture, Everly realized; the reaction of someone used to being mocked for what they enjoy. She pushed herself into a seated position, held out a placating hand. All she had been thinking of was the dog-eared volume Cassandra read nearly every day, huddled under the oak tree in the training yard. The habit was as familiar to her as Cassandra’s training routine itself.

“I’m sorry. I meant no offense,” Everly said quickly. “I just thought that you might like it, that’s all.”

Cassandra relaxed, but only slightly. She tucked the book under her arm, avoiding looking into Everly’s eyes. She muttered a hasty thank you, then quickly left, darting down the stairs so fast Everly wondered if she had imagined the entire exchange. For a brief moment, she considered going after Cassandra. But her head soon grew heavy, and she found herself sinking back underneath the blankets and furs.

Again, she dreamed of dragons. 

***

At Adamant, Everly banished the wardens. 

She was shocked at how easily the decision came to her. It was certainly not her original intention, but the anger had built inside her throughout the entire siege. This one nearly broke her, she thought. The revelation of what had occurred at the Conclave, the true origin of the mark on her hand--it was too much to absorb at once. She wished she had never agreed to go in the first place, wished she was still at home in Ostwick, far from blood and evil and deceit. And everything had boiled up inside her until she finally stood before the once-proud order and told them all to fuck off. 

Everly didn’t say that exactly, of course; such language was certain to get back to Josephine and the last thing she needed was another lecture. But her lips still curled back in a snarl and she spat on the ground in front of her after she was done speaking. A lone voice had then called up at her, trembling, asking where they should go. As far as she was concerned, they could all head towards the Deep Roads and finally meet their fate. 

Everly spent the rest of the ride out of the fortress in a foul mood, occasionally muttering to herself and glaring at anyone who came too close. The road out of Adamant could barely be described as one; their mounts lurched and stumbled over the uneven terrain. With each step, she let out a hiss through clenched teeth. Her obvious aggravation served to not only keep her party at bay, but also allowed her to conceal her wounds. 

Blood dripped steadily from the deep gashes in her left side, oozing over her hip and thigh. She held her left arm tightly against herself, feigning as if it was the Anchor that bothered her. The wound, from what she could tell, cut down her ribs and lower back. Really, she needed to strip down to her waist to get a good look at it, but she obviously couldn’t do that in plain view of everyone, the mark impossible to hide. 

She clenched her teeth even tighter. The fucking thing had come out of _nowhere._ And yes, she knew she should devote more time to study the specifics of the monstrosities that all dwell in the Fade, but she had been doing just fine so far. Most of it she had down: there were the small demons, the not-so-small demons, the ones that looked like a child with a bedsheet thrown over their head. Then there were the nasty-looking ones, and the _really_ nasty-looking ones. The details didn’t matter when they all fell under a well-placed arrow. 

But Everly always forgot about the particularly gruesome demons that seemingly disappear and reappear at will, with claws the size of her hand. She had tried to be diligent in tracking the demon’s movements, and if she hadn’t been watching Cassandra, she might have seen it coming. 

A massive rift had welcomed them as soon as they entered Adamant, spewing forth demon after demon. Cassandra had, of course, thrown herself right into the thick of before anyone had a chance to argue. Everly was right on her heels. She aligned her shots with Cassandra’s movements, a habit she had fallen into almost without realizing it. After months of watching the Seeker train, tracking her patterns in battle came as second nature. Everly had drawn down her bow at the demon in front of Cassandra, aiming for a spot just above the Seeker’s right shoulder, pausing for half a breath as she waited for the pivot to her shield side. But then Cassandra had uncharacteristically lost her footing on a loose stone and twisted into Everly’s shot. She had swung her bow away, the arrow let loose at an awkward angle. It sailed wide, missing by inches, and then the demon was on her, sinking its claws into her side. 

As if sensing the recollection, Cassandra eased into view. She eyed Everly thoughtfully, but remained just out of arm's’ length. Everly glared. Cassandra had done that at least half a dozen times by now--riding up to come alongside her and staring silently before dropping away again. Everly could feel those dark eyes on her, piercing through her back as Cassandra fell back into formation behind her. As if Cassandra knew exactly what she was hiding. 

_Everything_ she was hiding. 

Finally, the scout up ahead called out a spot to make camp, and the agonizing journey ended. As soon as her tent was pitched Everly was inside, tearing off her gloves and coat. She lit a small lantern that cast just enough light to allow her to see. Grimacing, she pulled off her outer tunic and picked at the tighter shirt underneath. The thin undershirt was a necessity; it was the only way to ensure that her back remained completely covered and her soulmark hidden. Now the fabric was in tatters, blood seeping from three jagged gashes that ran from her ribs down to her hip. The shirt was plastered to her side, soaked in blood. She tugged at the mangled fabric, trying to pull it away from the cuts without taking it off completely, hissing through clenched teeth as she peeled back layers of skin. 

Cassandra barged in a moment later. The entire tent shuddered, as if the ground itself was trembling from her arrival. Her gauntlets were already off, and she threw her sword and shield down with a crash as she entered. She knelt in front of Everly and reached for the wound, already admonishing the Inquisitor for keeping it a secret and not seeking attention immediately and how she’s _too important_ and _has to be smarter than that, dammit!_

Everly’s cheeks burned in spite of herself. She twisted away, slapping at Cassandra’s hands. Cassandra ignored her protests, still lecturing in a near-frenzy, and then tried to lift off the shirt entirely. Everly snapped. 

“I said no!”

Cassandra stopped. She sat back on her heels, eyes wide, swallowing hard. Nothing but sheer worry on her face. It was almost enough to make Everly feel guilty for pushing her away. 

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said, very deliberately, as if she she was steadying herself. “May I help? Those cuts are deep and must be cleaned.” Her voice was softer now, gentler than the furious onslaught she had unleashed just a moment ago. Both hands were up, palms out, a gesture of apology and surrender. 

Everly nodded. “Just don’t touch my back. Please.” 

“Of course.” 

Cassandra inched forward carefully, like she was approaching a wounded animal, then bowed her head to peer at Everly’s side. Slowly, she plucked at the shirt, rolling it up to Everly’s stomach, then began dabbing at the gashes with a clean cloth. Everly raised her arm to keep it out of the way, holding her hand behind her head. The Anchor flared in answer to the heat flushing her cheeks, giving the lie to what she was kept telling herself: that the warmth thrumming through her was just pain from her injuries. Nothing at all to do with Cassandra. 

The Seeker’s movements were quick and precise, deftly cleaning the wounds with practiced fingers. Everly wondered how many times she’s done this. Wondered, not for the first time, about the scar on her cheek. Where other scars might be. 

“I thought you never missed.” 

Cassandra spoke so quietly Everly almost missed it. She blinked in confusion, then recalled the day in the training yard. Cassandra kept talking, saying she saw Everly had rushed her shot. She kept her head down, focuses intently on her task. A small crease appeared between her brows. 

“And you never slip,” Everly said. Cassandra looked up, eyes narrowed, and Everly offered a small smile. She meant no harm. Cassandra’s gaze softened and she chuckled. They were even, then. 

She finished cleaning Everly’s wounds and pressed a fresh dressing to her side. With her other hand, she gave Everly a roll of fabric. Everly passed the roll around her waist, carefully covering the words that curled over her right hip, opposite of where Cassandra was kneeling. Cassandra then took the roll back and tied it off. Everly watched her work, noticing a slight tremble in the Seeker’s fingers. Her eyes traveled upwards, and she found herself studying Cassandra’s profile--lips pressed together in concentration, the scar, the perfect line of her nose, somehow unmarred even after a lifetime of battle. Cassandra glanced up, catching her staring. Everly looked away. 

Suddenly, Cassandra cleared her throat and sat back, announcing that she was finished. Everly lowered her arm and started fussing with the blood-stained shirt, tugging it down so that it covered her back. She muttered a thank you, brushed her bangs out of her eyes again. 

“That will need further attention when we return to Skyhold,” Cassandra said. 

Everly avoided her gaze. “Yes, of course.” The burning was still there, like fire running through her veins. The tent was too hot and too damn small and Cassandra was still too close, even though the Seeker had tried to put some space between them. But part of Everly wanted to close that distance again, to have Cassandra’s hands on her. Her warring feelings overwhelmed her, and she fought the urge to tear down the tent with her bare hands. She would suffocate if Cassandra stayed, but she would drown if Cassandra left. 

“I’m enjoying that book,” Cassandra blurted out. She rocked back on even further on her heels and seemed to hover awkwardly, like she wasn’t completely sure Everly would be okay--or like there was some other reason she was reluctant to leave. 

Everly couldn’t help but smile. “Really? Did you get to the part where she takes down a dragon by all by herself?”

The corner of Cassandra’s mouth twitched. “No. But that sounds utterly ridiculous.” 

“Why? I bet you could do it.” 

Cassandra sputtered briefly, and Everly caught the ghost of a blush on her cheeks. “Yes-yes, perhaps, but the main character is a pirate, not a dragon hunter. How could she possibly know how to fight a dragon?” 

“Guess you’ll have to read and find out.” Everly ran a hand through her hair, grin widening in spite of herself. 

Cassandra snorted, then the corner of her mouth twitched again. “It was kind of you to lend it to me, nonetheless.” She stood half-way, her height making it impossible to be upright in the tent, and gathered her weapons. Before she left, she turned her head and spoke over her shoulder. “You need a haircut. It’s a miracle you can see anything in the first place.” 

Everly watched her leave and sighed. 

“I see you,” she said, to no one in particular. 

***

_We look to our leader, and heft up our crest,_  
To show this Corypheus we're not impressed!  
He thinks we've been mastered,  
We'll beat down the bastard,  
And then we'll get plastered, we're blest by the best! 

_OH!_  
He cut into heaven, now sing it once more,  
Inquisitor! Lead us to even the score!  
We'll take back the sky, and we'll give him the flo-----------------------or! 

Everly tumbled out of the tavern, the crescendo of the chorus reverberating through her skull. The courtyard lit up in a blaze of light, then plunged back into darkness as the door closed behind her. She was alone. The irony of it--the subject of the tavern’s song sneaking out before it was finished--was not lost on her. At least, she was pretty sure it wasn’t lost on her. Was irony even the right word? Fuck it. She was too drunk to care. 

The courtyard was nearly black, the oil lanterns throwing off less illumination than usual. She squinted at the nearest one, vision blurring, and then took a swig of ale from the bottle she held loosely in her hand. It was almost gone. There was another bottle jammed in her back pocket, along with the letter that had arrived earlier that day, already torn and crumpled. 

Cabot had been more than happy to accommodate her when she had stumbled in, crushing the letter in her left hand, green energy flaring wildly and almost setting the parchment on fire. He hadn’t asked questions, instead just popping open a bottle of his newest brew, which he boasted was just as strong as traditional dwarven ale. For once, it wasn’t his usual bullshit--it may not have been exactly as potent as what Everly had heard, but it did the job. She was not a heavy drinker, and she usually could only handle one, two if Bull or Sera were really egging her on.

She was about to finish her fifth.

The ground spun beneath her feet and she staggered toward what she thought were the steps leading back up to the main hall. Her toe struck a rock and she tumbled forward, twisting around in an exaggerated spin before she found her footing again. She took another step and ran headfirst into someone. Startled, she jumped back and nearly fell on her ass, letting out an indignant yelp. She swayed back and forth, eyes narrowing as she waited for an apology. It took her several solid minutes to realize she had walked straight into a training dummy. 

Everly quickly swallowed the last of her ale, hoping that no one had seen the Inquisitor almost take a swing at a useless, inoffensive practice dummy. Her hand tightened around the neck of the bottle. The glass creaked as it rubbed against the leather of her glove, and she imagined it giving way, shattering into a thousand pieces in her palm. Before she realized what was happening, her arm raised and she was rearing back. 

The sound was even more satisfying than she had expected. The bottle crashed into the wall behind the dummy and exploded. Pieces of glass flew into the air, reflecting the light of the lamps like tiny stars. Grinning, she cracked open the other bottle. She managed to down half of it in one go, stopping before she got sick, then chucked that one away, too. The impact was wetter, messier; her face misted by a fine spray of ale as the half-full bottle shattered against the ancient stone. Still swaying precariously, she reached back again, pawing for more ammunition before she remembered she only had left the tavern with two bottles. All that remained in her pocket was the letter. Ripped, tear-stained. Nearly illegible. 

“What are you _doing?”_

She turned wildly and tripped over her own feet. She fell forward but caught herself with both hands at the last second, just before her face plowed into the dirt. A hand reached under her arm and helped her back up with a surprisingly gentle strength. She wiped off the knees of her breeches, then brushed the hair out of her eyes and looked up. 

Even in the dark, Cassandra’s concern was evident. Her brows knitted together and she wore her usual frown, but nothing about her demeanor suggested irritation or disappointment. Merely worry. Everly’s cheeks started to burn with embarrassment and shame. She wasn't sober enough to face anyone right now, let alone Cassandra. She wanted to turn away, to hide up in her quarters until the world righted itself again. But Cassandra’s grip kept her rooted in place. A flare of annoyance ignited somewhere deep in her chest--yet _again_ she could not be free of the Seeker--but the feeling soon faded away, too tired and overwhelmed to maintain her indignation. 

“What is the matter?” Cassandra’s voice was soft, just as it had been when she tended to Everly’s wounds after they left Adamant. Her hand loosened around Everly’s upper arm, but she still held on, as if she was afraid Everly would topple over again. 

The walls of Everly’s throat closed in, and she bit down on her lower lip to stop it from quivering. No. She would not cry in front of Cassandra. Her hands remained at her side, tightly balled into fists, and she realized she was grasping the letter. Cassandra waited, a display of patience that Everly didn’t know the Seeker possessed. 

Robb had written this one, his hasty, uneven scrawl even messier than usual. He had tried to temper the bad news with the good, and she while she could appreciate the effort, there was no softening the blow. She had read the letter over and over again, until she was nearly split in half from joy and devastation. The tavern was the only place where she could both celebrate and drown her grief. Funny how often that was true. 

“I have a nephew now,” she managed to say. Her eyes welled with tears. A strong, healthy nephew, mercifully unmarked. Oliver. The delivery had been swift and easy, and Siobhan was recovering quickly. 

Cassandra cocked her head. “Is that not cause for celebration?”

“Yes, but…” She inhaled, forcing the next words out between clenched teeth. “My father died the day after he was born.” 

Cassandra’s hand fell and she took a very deliberate step back. Everly immediately missed the contact. “I am so sorry,” she said gravely. 

Everly straightened and clasped her hands behind her back. She began crunching the letter into a ball. She tossed her bangs out of her eyes and puffed up her chest. Tried to speak matter-of-factly. “Thank you, but there’s no need, he’s been sick for quite some time now. I should have expected this, really, before I left he--” 

“Inquisitor, please.” Cassandra’s voice was painfully gentle. “There is no shame in grief. You are allowed to mourn.”

At that, the dam broke. Tears burned tracks down her cheeks. Her jaw tightened as she tried to bite them back, but it was no use. The ale she had been drinking so enthusiastically suddenly hit all all at once, and the ground spun beneath her again. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to pass out or throw up or scream violently into the night, but she knew she didn’t want to do any of that in front of Cassandra. She began to tremble. 

Then Cassandra’s hand was on her arm again, this time pulling her away from the training grounds and, in that same soft voice, telling Everly to come with her. She followed without protest as Cassandra lead her towards the battlements and silently helped her up the stairs until they reached the top of the guard tower. It was the tallest point in all of Skyhold. 

The bracing mountain air hit her face like a slap, but it actually felt good. Everything stopped spinning and her mind began to clear. A dull, hollow ache filled her chest, but in that moment, it seemed manageable. Craning her neck, she looked up into the star-filled sky. They seemed impossibly bright, even though her tears. She swiped at her cheeks and rocked back on her heels even further, so far she almost pitched backwards. 

Cassandra’s grip tightened, keeping her upright. Then she chuckled. “You’ve either had too much or not enough. I cannot decide. Either way, I thought the fresh air would help.” 

“Thank you,” Everly said. 

“Of course.” 

Silence filled the space between them, but there was no awkwardness. There was only comfort, and, for once, Everly let herself revel in it. She leaned into Cassandra’s touch, trying to draw strength from the Seeker’s solid presence. Cassandra let go of her arm and slowly reached across her shoulders to pull her closer. 

After that, Everly lost track of time. They could have been standing there for minutes or hours. She expected the sun to appear just over the mountain peaks any moment now, breaking whatever spell had come over them. But it never did. The night wrapped around them both, soft and still and peaceful. A thought came to her then. She cleared her throat lightly and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, as if anything louder would shatter that peace. 

“You pray, right?” 

It was probably an obvious question for someone as clearly devout as Cassandra, but the Seeker didn’t appear to mind. “Yes, every morning.” 

“Would you pray for my father? That he finds solace? I would do it myself, but I just...don’t really know any.” 

“I would be honored to.” Cassandra’s voice, too, was just a whisper. “You realize, though, it is not so much what you say but whether you believe what you are saying.” 

“I know. But I figure if there was anyone the Maker would listen to, it’s probably you.” 

Cassandra stiffened, and for a heartbeat Everly wondered if she had said something wrong. But then Cassandra tightened her embrace. “You flatter me,” she said hoarsely. Her hand moved away from Everly’s shoulder and began trailing down Everly’s spine to the small of her back. The heat of Cassandra’s touch sent sparks through her limbs and she pressed closer, only to have Cassandra suddenly yank her hand away. 

“What?” Everly blinked in confusion. They were still standing next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, but Cassandra’s hands were now clasped behind her back. 

“I apologize. I know you don’t like your back touched.” 

Reality crashed over Everly, as cold and unforgiving as a bucket of freezing water dumped over her head. She crossed her arms, wishing she didn’t care so much. Wishing that her father was still alive to advise her, wishing she had the power to rewrite the mark in any name of her choosing. 

“Uh, yes. Thank you.” 

“An old injury, I imagine? It must cause you great discomfort.”

“Yeah, yeah, you could say that.” Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Cassandra looking at her. Everly turned her head, wanting to meet the Seeker’s eyes, but she was gazing straight ahead, out over the blackness. Everly turned back, quickly wiping away a tear. She wished she knew what Cassandra saw in the black night, but in the end, it didn’t matter. The chasm they stood looking out over may as well lay between them.


	3. The Call

This time, the kick came without a warning. 

Josephine’s boot connected solidly with Everly’s ankle and she grimaced. Everly was sitting directly across from the ambassador, at her spacious and impeccably organized desk--a far cry from the disaster that sat up in the Inquisitor’s quarters. Josephine was more than happy to share the space, just so long as Everly refrained from fidgeting. Specifically, to refrain from bouncing her leg so frantically the entire desk shook. The first two times, Josephine asked politely. The third time, she tried a different tactic. 

“Sorry,” Everly muttered. Josephine just sighed, then tossed another letter onto the discard pile, to be dealt with later. The particular pitch of the noise she made told Everly exactly what category that letter fell in. She wrinkled her nose is distaste. 

The proposal and courtship offers had come in as soon as she was named Inquisitor. Everly’s familial status was public knowledge; despite her noble birth, as a woman and the last born, she could only hope to inherit through marriage. So, naturally, helpful men (and a few women) from all corners of Southern Thedas offered to assist on that account. On the surface, such unions made sense--Everly would gain in land and title rights, and her spouse would presumably have access to the Inquisition’s political clout. Predictably, Everly had no interest whatsoever. In fact, even considering an arrangement of that kind made her skin crawl. Most of the letters went unanswered--but she wasn’t above indulging in the gifts that accompanied some of the more aggressive offers. 

Several days ago, one would-be suitor (a lesser Orlesian duke whose name Everly promptly forgot) even went so far as to send her a potential wedding dress. The package had arrived just before she was about to start a meeting with her advisors. It was, of course, frilly and ridiculous and at least one size too big. Immediately, she yanked it on over her jacket and breeches and started twirling around the war table, gesturing wildly and spouting nonsense in an exaggerated Orlesian accent. Within moments, everyone was doubled over in laughter. 

And then Cassandra walked in. Without missing a beat, Everly pranced over to her and took her hand, spinning dramatically under the Seeker’s arm. Cassandra’s eyes widened and her cheeks instantly reddened, but she kept playing along. After a moment’s hesitation, Cassandra had even added her own impression of an absurd Orlesian noble, which was shocking in both its accuracy and hilarity. Soon both Leliana and Josephine were wiping tears from their eyes and Cullen was pounding a fist on the table, knocking over all of his model trebuchets. 

The moment, as brief as it was, had been a welcome release from the constant strain and tension of war. Everly had been pleased to see the smiles on her advisor’s faces, but for the rest of the day, she had thought of nothing but Cassandra’s laugh. It was the first day Everly had felt something close to happiness after her father died. 

Another kick connected with her shin, and Everly let out a yelp that turned into a surly growl. She must have started fidgeting again without realizing it. Josephine arched a brow, then added yet another letter to the pile. Everly sighed and shoved back her chair, then leaned forward to cross her arms on the table, her backside hanging dangerously off the edge of her seat. She planted her chin on the top of her arms and huffed impatiently. Josephine didn’t react. Everly paused, then huffed again, louder this time.

“I suggest you get used to the attention, Inquisitor.” Josephine didn’t even bother looking up. “These suitors are not going away anytime soon.” 

Everly squirmed in her seat, pouting again, and the mark on her back started to itch. Josephine glanced over briefly, but remained silent. Both Josephine and Leliana were the only members of the Inquisition that knew about the mark, but after only one conversation Leliana never mentioned it again. Soon after that, though, Everly found out that Josephine had a mark, too. The revelation was still stunning to her. After a lifetime of hiding, finally she wasn’t alone. It was enough to make her weep. 

They had exchanged only small details, almost prudishly, as if it was improper to discuss the subject openly. Josephine’s mark was on her arm. She wouldn’t say which one, and Everly realized that the ambassador’s usual long, ruffled sleeves were most likely a matter of necessity, and not a nod towards Antivian fashion trends. Everly in turn described hers, its location and sheer scope; an utter behemoth of a name that made Josephine’s eyes go wide. They both admitted their soulmates were women, but did not disclose any names--even though Everly had playfully winked and asked if it was her. Josephine had laughed and assured it her it definitely wasn’t. 

Neither of them had found their supposed soulmate. 

“You know,” Josephine began, very deliberately picking up her quill. “Cassandra has grown quite fond of you.” 

This was not the first time the ambassador had broached that subject, and Everly had come to expect the inquiry. Which was the only reason she didn’t fall out of her chair--her usual reaction whenever someone mentioned the Seeker.

Everly made a face. “So?”

“So, don’t you think you should probably address that somehow?” Josephine made a brief note on a new piece of parchment then filed it away in a different pile, appearing entirely unconcerned.

“And how would you suggest I do that?”

“A revolutionary strategy I call ‘talking it out.’” 

Everly grumbled under her breath and started to squirm again. A hot flush rose in her cheeks and she fought to tamp down on both her annoyance towards Josephine and the flutter growing in her chest. It was easy to view things so simply when you weren’t on the other side of embarrassment and rejection. Everly’s jaw twitched. 

Josephine finally looked up at the uncharacteristic silence, brown eyes softening. “I only wish to remind you that she would have no idea if--” 

“I know,” Everly said sharply. 

Perhaps the most peculiar thing Everly had learned during her time as Inquisitor was the different manner in which the regions of Thedas approached soulmarks. Orlesians treated them as a curiosity or novelty and nothing more. Marriages and affairs occurred without regard to individuals’ marks, which Everly supposed explained why her most aggressive suitors were Orlesian. At most, it was gossip fodder for players of the Game. 

Fereldens, though, held soulmarks as sacrosanct. Even the royal line had been broken and rebuilt and broken again over marks, people abandoning their familial obligations once they find their partner--which was probably why the country was so vulnerable to conquer by Orlais. In the Free Marches, where she was from, marks were so rare they were almost forgotten. In Rivain, there were stories of Seers with the power to bestow marks through magic, anointing infants with the gift of another’s name. Antivan law allowed for the dissolution of marriage contracts in the presence of a soulmark. 

And then there were the dragonhunters. 

Yes, Everly had known her odds--known her whole life. But she also recently discovered how things were done in Nevarra. The knowledge shook her. She was aware of Nevarrans’ general view of nobility, of how intractable the royal lines were and the rigid adherence to tradition and hierarchy. But now she knew what was done to Nevarran children in noble families who were born with a mark that was not of royal lineage. 

Everly knew that if her name had ever appeared on Cassandra’s body, it would have been burned off. 

***

They buried Daniel at the foot of a great oak just outside Caer Oswin. 

At first, Cassandra had insisted she would do it herself. She had hauled his lifeless body to his feet, then draped him over her shoulder and carried him out of the keep without a backward glance. Blood still oozed from the death blow Cassandra had delivered earlier, mercifully ending her former apprentice’s suffering, and it mingled with splatters from the other Seekers she had killed. Everly and Iron Bull trailed behind Cassandra quietly, watching as she laid Daniel down in the soft grass. Then she began to dig. 

Cassandra had requested only the two of them to accompany her to Caer Oswin, as opposed to a full contingent of soldiers. Everly assumed Cassandra wanted to keep the matter as discreet as possible, although she never said as much. Still, Everly couldn’t help but feel a small burst of pride at the request. 

And Cassandra clearly enjoyed Bull and thought highly of him, even though she denied it. Everly guessed that she also wanted someone here as far removed from the Chantry as possible. Someone who was not familiar with the Seekers of Truth, who would not understand how far the order had fallen. 

After exchanging a long glance, Everly and Bull moved as one to join Cassandra. The earth was somewhat soft beneath them, but digging a deep enough hole took a better part of the afternoon. Everly and Cassandra hacked at the ground with the small trowels they always traveled with, while Bull scooped away mounds of dirt in his massive palms. Eventually, just as the sun set, they lowered Daniel into his grave. 

Bull, in a thoughtful display, muttered something under his breath about setting camp for the night and wandered away. Cassandra remained at the foot of the grave, kneeling in the grass. Her hands, caked with mud, rested gently on her thighs, palms turned skyward. She closed her eyes and began to sing. 

Her voice was deep and rich, and resonated with a power that matched her physicality. Everly realized it would be foolish to expect anything different. She stared in awe, the words of the Chant echoing through the clearing and filling her in a way she had never experienced before. She was vaguely familiar with the verse Cassandra sang, a ghost of a memory from a service attended long ago. But she had never heard like this. Underneath grief and sadness, Everly heard a song of hope. Faith. Conviction that something better lay just beyond. 

Cassandra’s voice was so sure and so strong that, for a moment, Everly forgot everything else. The mark on her back, her father’s death, how she had merely stumbled into the wrong room by accident and foolishly touched the orb. Instead she thought: perhaps there was such a thing as providence. That she was set upon this path for a reason, all she had to do was _believe._

She didn’t want to intrude, but something compelled her to stay near Cassandra. She knelt down next to her and stared down at her own hands, folded demurely in her lap. They were also black with dirt, and she was sure she had also smeared it all over her face when she kept wiping her hair out of her eyes. Closing her eyes, she mouthed the words under her breath, not even daring an attempt to harmonize. When it was over, she lowered her head and tried to think of a prayer. Immediately she was overwhelmed by wave of shame and guilt. She couldn’t even think of something appropriate to say for her father, let alone a complete stranger. Then she remembered what Cassandra had told her that night on the battlements, about how what you said didn’t matter as long as you believed in it. Everly wished she had heard that earlier. The words were awkward and stale in her mouth, but she spoke them nonetheless. 

And then Cassandra’s hand brushed against hers. 

Everly’s eyes flew open and she watched in wonder as their fingers, still slick with mud, slowly laced together. Her head snapped over. Cassandra’s gaze was not trained skyward, or forward on Daniel’s grave. She was looking at Everly. 

“Thank you,” she said. “You are too kind.” 

The walls of Everly’s throat closed in. All she could do was nod. 

***

Later that night, she woke. 

A soft light filled the tent, just barely discernible in the darkness. Everly blinked at the top of the tent, then looked down. She was laying on her back, hand resting lightly on her ribs, and the Anchor glowed against her chest. She wondered if that was what roused her, but then she realized Cassandra was lying on her side next to her, so close that Cassandra’s face was almost touching her shoulder. The Seeker’s hand was curled over Everly’s bicep. 

Everly’s heart slammed into her ribs and the Anchor flared in response, throbbing in time with her rapid pulse. She froze. The tent was still, the only sound Cassandra’s deep breathing. Everly waited, listening for any change in the cadence of Cassandra’s breath, steeling herself for when Cassandra would wake or turn over and the moment would be over. But Cassandra didn’t stir, 

Everly relaxed. The Anchor quieted and her heart rate slowed down again. Everly turned her head, nearly brushing Cassandra’s forehead with her lips, and fell back asleep. 

***

The journey back to Skyhold was just as arduous as coming the other direction had been. The terrain was rocky and uneven, the trails non-existent, and the degree of difficulty was further coupled by Bull’s sheer mass. He moved so gracefully it was easy to forget how large he truly was; his bulk often strained even the sturdiest of Dennent’s mounts. They were forced to ride single file, with Everly sandwiched between Cassandra and Bull, and Bull spent most of the time traveling on foot, leading his horse when the trail became too steep. 

Everly grew bored and antsy when they rode in a line, with nothing to do but watch for sharp rocks and brush that could impede her charger’s path. Most of the time she stared fiercely down at the back of her horse’s head, trying not to watch Cassandra ride up ahead. 

The Seeker was unusually quiet--brooding, even--and had been ever since they departed Caer Oswin. Everly knew everything had to be difficult to process, with the revelation of what Cassandra’s order had become and the mysteries in the book now in her sole possession. A sadness hung over her, a heaviness that Everly had never seen before. Cassandra read the tome every night over the fire, devouring each ancient page as if her life depended on it. Everly didn’t ask for details, and Cassandra didn’t offer any. 

If Bull noticed the Seeker’s mood, he made no comment. He seemed content to fill the time with good-natured stories and friendly jabs. Whenever the trail widened enough to walk side-by-side, Everly would leap from her saddle without warning and land nimbly on Bull’s back. From there, she would prop her elbows up on his horns and they would gab incessantly at each other, Everly grateful for something to do. Eventually their conversations would devolve into nonsensical arguments for no good reason. (“There is no way a Ferelden Frostback could take on a Highland Ravager, boss.” “I bet it could.” “No, it couldn’t.” “Yes, it _could_.”) When Cassandra finally had enough, she whipped around in her saddle to glare at them both. Bull immediately diffused the situation by loudly complimenting the view of her riding in front of them. A small whisper of a smile flashed across her face before she let out a disgusted noise and turned back. Everly looked away, blushing. 

On the fourth night, Bull retired early, leaving Everly to take first watch. Cassandra was already seated around the fire, hunched over the book in her lap and wearing a deep frown. A familiar crease was set deep in her forehead, and Everly recognized that she was working through a particularly difficult passage. Everly moved quietly through the camp, circling through the perimeter several times before stepping into the surrounding bush and emerging with a fallen branch. She flipped out her hunting knife, quickly whittled one end down to a point and carved a notch in the other. She dug an old cloth out of her pocket, wrapped it around the notched end, then returned to the fire. Everly felt Cassandra’s eyes on her as she lit the makeshift torch and drove it into the ground by the Seeker’s knee.

“You’ll need more light if you insist on reading all night again,” Everly said. 

Cassandra shifted. “Thanks,” she muttered distractedly. 

For a long while, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the turn of a page. The silence was unnerving. Everly fidgeted nervously, hands clenching and unclenching as she walked around the small campsite, set in a tiny clearing surrounding by dense, thick woods. The Anchor flared briefly, then fell quiet. She was used to bird calls and droning insects and far-off howls. Not silence. She stopped pacing and craned her neck far back to look up the stars that peeked through the trees. Thought again about the sound of Cassandra singing, wondering if she would ever hear that again. 

Then she heard her name. 

“Everly.” 

Cassandra looked over at her, brow still furrowed, the tome still in her lap but now closed. Everly cocked her head, walked back to the fire, and sat down on the ground next to Cassandra. The Seeker looked pensive, her features drawn. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then snapped it shut. Everly watched this happen at least two more times before she finally began. 

“You know of the Rite of Tranquility, yes?” she asked. 

Something in the tone of her voice caused a swell of anxiety in Everly’s chest. Everly shifted, drawing her legs into her chest and wrapping her arms around her knees. “Yes,” she answered. 

“It can be reversed.” 

Everly’s jaw dropped. “Wh-what?”

Cassandra’s hand brushed over the tome’s worn, ancient cover as she explained everything. The true reason behind the start of the war, how Lord Seeker Lambert covered it up, the fact that the Seekers of Truth had not only created the Rite, but knew how to reverse it and kept that knowledge secret. And that she herself had been made tranquil during her vigil. That was what she had been grappling with over the past several days. 

Everly didn’t know what to do or say; she just hugged her knees tighter and started rocking back and forth slightly as Cassandra continued to speak. There was a slight tremor in her voice, yet she still spoke plainly--almost clinically--as she discussed the future of her order. And what, if anything, was even worth saving. 

“You should rebuild the Seekers,” Everly blurted out suddenly. 

Cassandra sighed. “At some point, power becomes its own master. We cast aside ideals in favor of expediency and tell ourselves it was all necessary. Those who do no heed history are doomed to repeat it.” She paused. “I do not know if the Seekers _should_ be rebuilt. And if so, I do not know if I am capable of doing it.” 

“Cassandra, I believe you can do anything.” Everly said it with utter certainty, as if she had just been asked the color of the sky or to give her father’s name. 

That seemed to snap Cassandra back to the present, and she even gave a little jerk, as if she wasn’t expecting such a compliment. Even with shadows dancing across her face, Everly saw Cassandra’s cheeks blush. 

“You are too kind,” she said quickly. 

She’d heard that before from Cassandra, several times now, and each time something twisted deep in Everly’s chest. Most of what the Seeker knew was a world that was cold and hard and dangerous. Not kind. Or soft, or frivolous. Everly found herself thinking, not for the first time, that she could keep showing Cassandra kindness, as often as possible, for as long as she let her. 

Silence fell, and again Everly was struck by how quiet everything was. She stared fiercely ahead at the fire, watching as the flames slowly consumed the logs. After a while, Cassandra spoke again. 

“I have been having...visions of late. About the vigil.” Just as before, Cassandra’s voice was distant. 

“You mean dreams?”

Cassandra shuddered. “Perhaps. A woman comes to me in the night. I think she’s a spirit. She tells me she has a great secret to share, and that I must follow her. She leads me out of Montsimmard and back to Nevarra, through the Grand Necropolis where I was raised. She stops in front of a door I do not know. I can hear a child crying. And the air...it tastes like dragonfire.”

Everly’s eyes widened. “And then?”

“She points to the door and tells me to go through it. I reach for the handle, the door begins to open. And then I wake.”

Everly turned her head to look at Cassandra’s profile. The Seeker’s jaw was twitching. “What do you think it means?” she asked softly. 

“I don’t know,” Cassandra said quickly. 

And in that moment, Everly realized what a poor liar Cassandra was. 

***

That night, she dreamed of dragonfire. Even though she had never faced a dragon before Corypheus, she had known dragonfire her whole life. She could taste it, in the back of her throat; the acrid stench that filled her mouth and left her choking. This night, though, she also dreamed of burnt skin and a child’s wails. She woke just before dawn, drenched in sweat, heart racing. And she was alone. 

The tent shook, and Cassandra entered silently. The Seeker was already dressed and looked darkly determined. She knelt down next to Everly, making no comment or observation about her state. Cassandra said no words at all, actually, but her appearance and demeanor made it more than clear: I must leave.

Everly blinked, fighting through a fog of exhaustion and the lingering anxiety from her dream. Instinctively, she groped for her boots, and nearly had one all the way on before Cassandra stopped her. 

“No,” said Cassandra firmly. “I must go alone.” 

Everly knew there were still a few Seekers out there--the remnants of the order now tallied on the fingers of one hand--and of course Cassandra meant to find them. All she could do was nod. It was utterly pointless to argue with Cassandra when her mind was made up, and Everly knew how important it was. She blinked again, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes and fighting the urge to rub tiredly at her face. Instead, she set her own jaw, tried to mimic Cassandra’s determination and certainty. 

“Of course,” Everly said. 

Then, suddenly, Cassandra reached out and caught the side of Everly’s face. The touch was surprisingly gentle, even through the rough material of her gloves. Everly watched Cassandra’s dark eyes widen in surprise, as if her hand had moved out of its own accord. Everly pushed her hand away, sparing them both the embarrassment of having to acknowledge the gesture. She forced a quick, fleeting smile, and groped for the right words to bid the Seeker safe travels. 

“Maker go with you,” Everly said. It was not right or enough, but it would have to do. 

And then Cassandra was gone. 

***

Finally, she was banished to the chair. 

Her fidgeting, always an unconscious habit, had grown tenfold over the course of the evening, and Josephine could only take so much. Just before midnight Everly was sent to the oversized chair in front of the fireplace, far enough away so she would stop rattling the ambassador’s desk. 

Although Josephine’s glare kept her backside planted in the chair, Everly still huffed and sighed and twisted around in her seat, compulsively ran her hand through her newly-shorn hair. The haircut had been at Vivienne’s insistence; she had swooped into the ambassador’s office two days ago and proclaimed that she would not be seen in public with the Inquisition unless something was done about _that_ , pointing directly at Everly’s head. The thick, unruly mop had been razed soon after. Although the sides remained short, Everly now sported a clean side part similar to Dorian’s, her bangs combed back off her forehead. Her stubborn cowlick still refused to surrender, though, and a patch of hair on the back of her head struck straight up into the air. Exacerbated, of course, by Everly constantly running her fingers through it. 

Everly glared at the haphazard piles of memos and notes on the floor in front of her. The new arrangement made writing difficult, but as Josephine was quick to remind her, she had forfeited the luxury of a desk. However, the proximity to the fireplace did increase the efficiency with which she could dispose of particularly burdensome documents. Every was proud of her new innovative filing system, until Josephine yelled at her for accidentally incinterating an entire stack of unpaid invoices. She apologized and quickly buried herself in a mountain of notes. 

Her latest assignment had her almost wishing she could throw herself into the fire and end her misery. They would be leaving for Halamshiral in two days, and Everly had been tasked with studying not only the entire history of the Valmont family, but with committing to memory every noble that could be in attendance, their lineage, and their exact financial position, including amounts owed and to whom. 

The latter was almost enjoyable; numbers were predictable, steady things, and could be traced from one point to another. As certain as the sun rising each morning. And if it was anything Everly wanted right now, it was certainty. 

Cassandra had been gone for just over a month. One month and four days, to be precise. The catalogue had started as soon as Cassandra left, except instead of counting the Seeker’s steps and movements like before, she was tracking hours, days, weeks. She noted each day as it passed, laying in bed at night and staring at the ceiling, adding it to her silent tally. She told herself it was just out of professional concern; missing such a key member of the Inquisition was difficult, and if Cassandra didn’t return soon, she would miss the departure for Halamshiral. 

But that wasn’t the whole truth. 

Cassandra’s absence was even more acute than her presence, and slowly, inexorably, Everly felt herself becoming unmoored. Restless, unsettled. Like nothing would ever be quite right again. Each day the feeling had worsened, and now she was fairly certain that she was, in fact, going mad. 

To combat the feeling, she stayed in motion. Every morning she was up with the sun, out hunting in the woods surrounding Skyhold with an almost maniacal intensity. She returned with braces full of grouse and pheasant and coneys, so many that the kitchen staff joked that there couldn’t be anything left alive. Then she threw herself into meetings with her advisors. Pacing and arguing burned some of the energy--but only some. The evenings were spent in Josephine’s office, drafting letters and preparing for the ball, until the ambassador tired of her fussing and kicked her out. 

After that, she wandered about Skyhold. Most times, she found Dorian and Bull and the Chargers and drank until she was numb. Or tracked down Varric for a hand or two of cards. Vivienne was always too busy--with what Everly had no idea, and decided she was better off not knowing. Blackwell indulged her visits, but spoke only in grunts and did not appear interested in company. She gave Cole a wide berth; for all her affection towards him, he still hadn’t learned not to speak people’s thoughts out loud (a lesson learned the hard way one morning when she had been particularly fixated on Cassandra’s backside). Sera, surprisingly, was spending a fair amount of time in the Undercroft and seemed to vanish for days at a time. On the rare occasion, Everly would even go so far as to seek out Solas and willfully subject herself to a long-winded lecture about the Fade. Only after all her options were exhausted did she return to her quarters, to toss and turn until dawn. And then she got up and did it all over again. 

During the second week, Sera had called Everly out. Literally. The elf had appeared out of nowhere, hanging upside down from the tree in the training yard--the one Cassandra always read under, of course--and yelled in annoying sing-song voice how poor Inky missed her Seeker McPunchyface, loud enough so the whole damn courtyard heard. Everly had whirled around and chucked rocks at Sera’s head until she had dismounted gleefully and ran away cackling. Telling Sera off usually just egged her on even more, so to make her point, Everly had snuck into the elf’s room that night and raided her cookie stash. The night after that, Everly had thrown back the covers on her bed to find at least half a dozen spiders waiting for her. 

The prank war escalated from there and lasted the remainder of the week. It was a welcome distraction, even if Everly now had holes in all of her smallclothes. Unfortunately, after a particularly messy stunt involving several yards of string, a pie tin, a handful of manure, and Cullen’s desk (thereafter only referred to as the “incident”), Leliana suggested not-so-subtly that the Inquisitor find better uses for her time.

And so she did. In the third week, restlessness still gnawing at her, Everly ordered an expedition to the Hinterlands. All three advisors had just blinked at her in confusion, knowing there was no real reason for it, especially when everyone was in the throes of preparations for Halamshiral. She ignored their protests, as reasoned as they were, and set out that afternoon with Bull, Dorian, and Sera in tow. 

Of course, the expedition was utterly pointless. Over the course of five days, they only manage to pick a few fights with outmatched bandits and returned a lost goat to its owner--hardly productive uses of the Inquisition's time. On the way back, they got caught in two solid days of vicious rain. They returned to Skyhold drenched, caked in mud, and with utterly nothing to show for it. Cullen had started in on a lecture about wasting resources when she handed in her report, but quickly stopped when Everly threatened his desk again. 

Now over a month had passed, and Everly still felt like she was crawling out of her skin. She shifted in the chair and looked over at Josephine. The ambassador was still working steadily, a placid look on her face as her quill swept delicately over the parchment in front of her. She appeared completely oblivious to Everly’s distress. Everly stared at the pile in her lap. In one brave, delirious thought, she considered just throwing it all into the fire and watching it ignite gloriously. Instead, she just shoved everything onto the floor with a petulant huff. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying. She leaned back and started massaging her temples. Maybe tonight would be different and she would finally be able to sleep. 

Just then, an odd sensation crawled up the back of her neck, causing her hair to stand on end. She placed both hands on the armrests and pushed herself up, craning to peer out of the window and into the main courtyard two stories below. Guards were converging on the gate, brightly lit torches held high into the night. There was a brief commotion, then the gate opened. The silhouette of a lone figure, riding straight-backed on a massive charger, slowly entered the fortress.

Everly launched herself straight into the air. 

As soon as her feet hit the ground, she was off, kicking up piles of letters in her wake and leaving a trail to the door. She was already out of Josephine’s office and down the hall before she even realized she was being yelled at. She flew through the main hall, ignoring the bewildered looks and yelps of surprise from a handful of servants, then burst through the doors into the cold night. Without thinking, she ran halfway down the staircase and leapt off, landing on the main courtyard. She found the nearest wall and jumped from that one, too, into the lower courtyard, nearly landing in a merchant’s stall. Her feet moved faster than her brain could catch up, and she had to tell herself to slow down just as she arrived at the stables. Her heels dug into the hard ground, sending up a small plume of dirt just as Cassandra turned around. 

Everly had imagined she would have something clever to say when Cassandra finally returned. She had even practiced a few options, turning them over in her head until she had achieved the perfect balance of smooth but not overly-rehearsed. Playful, but not insulting. But before she had a chance to say anything, she was pulled into a crushing hug. 

Cassandra’s arms wrapped around her shoulders and Everly felt Cassandra’s hand, still heavy from the weight of her gauntlet, on the back of her head, fingers curling into her hair. The hard angles of the Seeker’s armor dug into Everly’s face and chest, but she ignored the discomfort and leaned into the embrace, clutching as best she could at Cassandra’s back. Cassandra smelled of the earth, of blood and sweat and metal--something raw and elemental that was exhilarating and yet grounding at the same time. Everly breathed deeply, and miraculously, her heart rate began to slow. She felt calm. Steady. The world had righted itself and now she stood with both feet planted firmly beneath her. 

They pushed apart suddenly, almost at the exact same time, almost as if they both realized that despite the late hour, they were still very much out in the open. Their eyes met. Cassandra was dirty and trail-worn, and even in the dim torchlight her face was drawn, her already sharp cheekbones disturbingly gaunt. Her gaze, though, was bright and clear and she favored Everly with a familiar half-smile. 

“About time,” Everly said, a smile of her own tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

Cassandra scoffed, but it sounded like she was trying to conceal amusement more than anything. She reached for Everly again, this time to ruffle her new hair. “I could say the same to you.” 

Everly ducked away, swatting at Cassandra’s hand. “Don’t! You’ll mess it up.” 

“Indeed.” Cassandra turned away, still smiling, and returned briefly to her charger. Everly finally registered the amount of activity around Cassandra’s horse, stablehands hurriedly unloading her horse, which was laden with full saddlebags and packs. Cassandra loosed one satchel from the back of her saddle, giving the horse an affectionate pat on its haunch before returning to where Everly stood and handing it to her. A distinct, metallic odor rose from the bag and Everly’s eyes widened. Inside was several pieces of thick, sinewy animal innards, carefully harvested and wrapped in cloth. Although Everly couldn’t recognize what animal it was from, she immediately recognized its purpose. A thrill of excitement shot through her. 

“Gut?” she asked eagerly.

Cassandra shook her head. “Dragon heart. I understand it’s quite good for bow string.” Her chest puffed up slightly and when she spoke the pride in her voice was unmistakable. 

Everly’s jaw dropped. For a moment, everything became very, very still. And then she was airborne again, jumping straight up into the air and slugging Cassandra right in the shoulder. Her voice rose an octave. “You fought a fucking dragon by yourself?!” Each word was punctuated by an indignant jab. Cassandra brushed her back like she was merely an insect buzzing around her head. 

“It was barely more than a dragonling,” Cassandra said, easily dodging one of Everly’s blows. “I’ll tell you all about it, if you promise not to wet yourself.” 

Everly let out an offended yelp and intensified her assault. She began swinging blindly and Cassandra parried each one with a laugh, as if she were fighting a child. Cassandra’s laugh was deep and rich, even more striking than her singing voice, her smile broad but still crooked. Everly had never really noticed how the left side of Cassandra’s face remained frozen in place even as she laughed, no doubt a result of whatever injury had left behind that jagged scar. Even as she continued to pummel at Cassandra, Everly realized it just made her all the more endearing. 

The ridiculous display ended when Cassandra, as if bored of their game, effortlessly caught Everly’s wrist and twisted her away. Everly turned it into a dance, turning under Cassandra’s arm and darting back in close to jab at her side, right where the joint of her breastplate met the backpiece. Cassandra caught that wrist, too, and suddenly she was holding both of Everly’s hands. 

They were alone. The stablehands had all scattered as quickly as they appeared, Cassandra’s horse unpacked and settled for the evening. Cassandra’s smile had faded somewhat, but now she was looking at Everly in a way that no one ever had before--as if Cassandra was the desert and Everly was the rain. Everly’s heart stopped as Cassandra’s hands tightened around hers. 

“You must be hungry!” Everly didn’t recognize her voice or the bizarre squeak it made, but inexplicably, she kept talking. “I’ll find you some food!” She pulled back and darted away without waiting for a reply. Lightheaded and dizzy, she took off for the kitchen, grateful for the open, empty courtyard in front of her. 

The only person in the kitchen when she arrived was a small boy, no more than eight or nine, tasked with scrubbing the last of the pewter from dinner and keeping the fires going. Everly didn’t know his name and immediately felt a surge of guilt, especially at the way his eyes widened comically when she burst through the door. Everly handed him the sack and told him to run it to the Undercroft, certain that Dagna would both be up at this hour and know how the hell to properly store dragon heart. She gave him a copper for his troubles, which just made his eyes go even wider. 

Everly easily found another sack and started filling it with whatever she could get her hands on: dried fruit, nuts, hard cheeses. She had bagged four grouse earlier that morning and was pleased to see there was one still on the roasting spit. Carefully wrapping the bird in thin cloth, she slid it off the spit and added it to her haul, along with half a loaf of bread. Miraculously, she also found two of the blueberry pastries that were Cassandra’s favorite. They were a little stale, but still better than nothing. And, of course, two bottles of ale.

With her arms and bag full, she walked briskly through the courtyard to the forge on the other end of Skyhold. It was colder than she had originally realized, distracted by Cassandra’s arrival. By the time she reached the forge she was shivering, and was instantly grateful for the warmth of the fires. 

Cassandra greeted her wearing a simple loose-fitting tunic and breeches. Her cheeks were still flush from the bath, her small braid undone, a thin wave of raven hair falling onto her shoulder. She looked as soft and vulnerable as Everly had ever seen her, and it was almost too much to bear. Everly averted her eyes and busied herself with unloading all food. As she set the table, she realized she brought far too much and a hot blush ran up her face. 

Cassandra didn’t seem to notice Everly’s embarrassment, or the sheer amount of food. Nor did she mention their earlier exchange at the stables. She merely thanked her, offered up a quick prayer and dove into the spread. Everly sat across from her and watched as Cassandra tore into the bread and cheese and grouse, wondering if her gaunt appearance had less to do with exhaustion, but rather due to lack of provisions on her journey. Or, she realized, Cassandra had been deliberately fasting. 

A thousand questions came to mind as Everly considered that last possibility, but she held them back. She also refrained from talking about the restlessness, the sleepless nights, the unease that had followed her the past month. Instead, she spoke of frivolities, listing all the utter nonsense that Cassandra missed--the prank war with Sera, the defiling of Cullen’s desk, Bull’s incessant campaigning for No Pants Fridays. She nicked food from Cassandra’s plate as she talked, earning a disgruntled growl each time she absconded with a hunk of cheese or a piece from the grouse’s thigh. It became another game, with Everly seeing how much she could steal before Cassandra slapped at her hand. Everly nearly made off with the whole loaf of bread before Cassandra dramatically yanked the entire plate away in outrage. She didn’t dare touch the pastries. 

Eventually, Cassandra finished and they dove into the ale. The pace of Everly’s talking had finally slowed, and now they were on to subjects Cassandra did not want to discuss. Despite her earlier statement, Cassandra brushed off her encounter with the dragon, insisting again that it was merely a juvenile and she had stumbled across its lair accidentally. Everly just sipped at her ale. She was no dragon hunter, but she knew that you didn’t just happen upon a dragon’s nest. Especially someone as skilled a tracker as Cassandra. No, the simple truth was that Cassandra had, quite frankly, been looking for a fight. 

They moved to the floor by Cassandra’s bedroll, sitting next to each other with their backs against the wall, their legs stretched out in front of them. “Did you find the other Seekers you were looking for?” Everly finally asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Did you speak with them?”

“Yes.”

Everly tapped her finger against her bottle of ale. “And?”

“The conversations were short.” 

Suddenly, she felt silly for even asking. Everly took a long pull of ale and looked down. They were both barefoot, and even though Everly was slouching, her feet only reach the middle of Cassandra’s calves. She wondered if she had forgotten how tall Cassandra really was. 

“Is that why you were fasting?” she pressed. 

Cassandra’s head jerked over and she looked at Everly in surprise, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to notice. Then she sighed and rubbed at her face tiredly. She ran ran a hand through her hair and trailed her fingers through the long strands at the base on her neck. Everly watched the lean, scarred fingers as they began to braid, seemingly moving out of unconscious habit. 

“I attempted to recreate my vigil,” Cassandra said, very softly. “Now that I know what happened, I tried to reach a spirit of faith again. I returned to Haven and prayed and fasted in what was left of the Chantry. The veil is thin there, as I understand. I thought that would make it easier.” She paused. “My order is no more. I wanted...I needed to hear that it wasn’t a waste.” 

“It wasn’t a waste, Cassandra,” Everly said emphatically. “It’s still not a waste.” 

Cassandra didn’t answer. She took a drink of ale. 

Everly thought back to Daniel’s burial, to the sound of Cassandra’s voice as she sang the Chant. How she had been awestruck by its power, how she had felt the song resonating through her core. Then, she was hit by a surge of anger as sharp and sudden as a lightning bolt. All of it was bullshit. It was not for organizations to decide who was appropriately pious and who wasn’t. What mattered was the individual’s actions and words, how they moved through the world and sought to do good each day. And if there was ever a perfect example of that, it was Cassandra, spirits and rites be damned. 

It took Everly a moment to realize that, to her horror, she was actually saying all this out loud. She immediately clamped her mouth shut and put down her ale, swearing to herself that she would never drink again.

Cassandra arched her brow and gave her a bemused look. The corner of her mouth quirked up, and she gave Everly that half-smile again. Everly looked away and rubbed at the back of her neck awkwardly. When she lowered her hand, Cassandra caught it in her own and gave it a squeeze. 

“Thank you for saying that,” she said. 

Everly bit her bottom lip and stared at her feet. “Of course.”

***

Her eyes opened slowly, and she found herself staring at blackness. Even though she couldn’t see, instinctively she knew she was in unfamiliar surroundings. Yet something told her that she was safe. She raised her head and blinked, the faint light from burned down coals gradually coming into focus. Beneath her, she felt something warm and firm, rising and falling in a steady motion. She froze. 

Cassandra was asleep next to her, her arm wrapped around Everly’s shoulders. Her other hand was resting gently on Everly’s forearm, which was stretched across Cassandra’s chest, fingers curled around the collar of her tunic. Everly frowned in confusion. She couldn’t recall taking off her jacket, or climbing into Cassandra’s bedroll. And she certainly did not remember falling asleep with her head on Cassandra’s shoulder, her leg thrown across Cassandra’s waist. 

But now that she was here, she couldn’t imagine anything else. Fatigue slipped over her, the weeks of restless nights finally taking its toll. She wanted nothing more than to lay her head back down, burrow deeper into the crook of Cassandra’s neck, and not move until midday. It was far too indulgent, she knew; all it would take was a nosy blacksmith or stablehand to catch her leaving in the morning and a fresh round of rumors would be unleashed. But she was just too damn tired and comfortable to care. 

As if sensing her hesitation, Cassandra made the decision even easier. Her arm tightened around Everly, gently pulling her back down. Everly gave in immediately, tucking herself in closer to Cassandra with a sigh. Cassandra murmured something unintelligible, her cheek resting against the top of Everly’s head. Just before she drifted off again, Everly whispered into the darkness. 

“I can’t believe you picked a fight with a dragon.”

A discontented rumble came from deep in Cassandra’s throat. Her mutter was half-lost in Everly’s hair, but still just understandable. 

“Shut up about the damn dragon.” 

***

Winter was in the air. 

Everly woke with a shudder, a sliver of cold air snaking down her back. She huddled deeper under the furs in her bed. The morning was damp and foggy, and already it seemed like the chill had set into her bones. The fireplace in her chambers, usually kept raging at all hours, was uncharacteristically cold. She glared at the charred, inert logs, wishing she could ignite them through sheer will. 

The sun was nothing more than a faint haze in the grey sky, and had just barely crested the peaks of the Frostbacks. She couldn’t even be sure of the time, whether it was still morning or even midday, but either way it was clear that the cold would be present all day. Everly sighed. The warmth of the forge seemed so distant, so far away, that for a moment she wondered if she had dreamed the whole thing. But no, she had woken up in Cassandra’s arms that morning, sharing the bedroll, the most content she’d felt in months. 

And then she had been promptly kicked out. 

Everly let out an irritated huff. That was being uncharitable, she knew. Cassandra had woken her gently just before dawn, the forge still dark. She had explained, almost apologetically, that she was going to head out to the training yard, and that Everly may want to return to her own quarters now, before anyone was awake. Everly had reluctantly dragged herself out of the bedroll with an exaggerated whine, pulled on her boots, and staggered back across the freezing courtyard to her cold bed. She wished she was still in the forge, with Cassandra. Found herself wondering if they could share a bedroll again. What it would feel like to have Cassandra in her bed.

That last thought sent her scurrying out from beneath the covers. She yelped as her bare feet touched the freezing stone floor, but was grateful for something else to focus on. Last night was an indulgence, nothing more. She repeated it to herself as she pulled on her heaviest tunic and wrapped an enormous scarf around her face and neck. Nothing more. Nothing more. Eventually, she could almost believe it. 

They were set to depart for Halamshiral the next morning at dawn, and all of today would be spent on final preparations. Everly grumbled under her breath. All she ever did was _prepare_ and _plan_ and _strategize,_ and honestly at this point, she just wanted to get the damn thing over with. If she was quick enough, she might be able to slip away before she was spotted and physically dragged into another meeting. She quietly opened the door to her quarters and peeked out. The main hall was surprisingly devoid of activity; just a few nobles milling about after breakfast. She thought about darting across the way and heading down to the Undercroft to talk to Dagna about her new bow string, but she could too easily be cornered there. Instead she pulled the scarf up to her nose and briskly walked through the main hall and out the doors, sticking to the side wall to blend in. 

Everly had intended on heading towards the stables, where there were plenty of places to hide, but instead her legs carried her over to the training yard. The tall, familiar figure loomed near the practice dummies, and Everly felt a burst of warmth in her chest that momentarily drove out the cold. Another figure was walking away from Cassandra, towards Everly, and Everly realized it was Varric. He offered a jaunty salute as he passed, and Everly immediately wondered what he was up to. 

Cassandra was stomping back and forth, huffing and puffing and muttering under her breath. Her head snapped up at Everly’s approach and her eyes immediately softened. She didn’t mention last night, though, instead appraising Everly up and down. 

“That scarf is ridiculous,” Cassandra announced. “It is not that cold out.” 

Everly tugged down the scarf to reply. “Says you. Not all of us have dragon blood running through our veins.” 

Cassandra stopped pacing and placed her hands on her hips. She bit the bottom of her lip, hard, and Everly was fairly certain she was trying not to smile. “Hush,” she said. “You’re almost as aggravating as the dwarf.”

“What did he do now?”

“He wrote the next chapter of Swords & Shields!”

Everly blinked, suddenly gripped by a surge of anxiety at Cassandra’s apparent annoyance. She had assumed that corceing Varric into finishing the series would have resulted in the complete opposite reaction. “Um. Isn’t that a good thing?”

The look on Cassandra’s face turned into one of righteous, mighty indignation. “He refuses to let me see it until I beat him at a hand of cards! That little shit!”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Everly said, immediately and without thinking. Leave it to Varric to turn losing a bet into a way to further torment the Seeker. 

“What deal?” 

Everly realized her mistake as soon as Cassandra’s eyes narrowed and the Seeker took a step towards her. Cassandra was looking at her suspiciously, jaw set in the same manner as when Everly had offered her the book. 

Everly huddled down into her scarf and glanced away, fumbling for a reply. “Um, well, he lost a bet. And had to finish the series.”

“A bet to whom?” Cassandra’s gaze sharpened even more. 

“Me.” Everly clasped her hands behind her back to stop from fidgeting, but began rocking back and forth on her heels anyway. 

“You made a bet against Varric so he would write a book. For me.” Cassandra spoke each word very slowly, very deliberately. Everly’s cheeks burned with each syllable.

“Yes,” she admitted. 

“Why?”

The truth was on the tip of Everly’s tongue so fast she almost said it. She barely caught herself in time, hearing the echo of words unspoken. _Because I want to see you smile. Because it will make you happy. Because it’s what you deserve._

Instead, she looked away and said, “Because we’re friends.”

“Ah. Friends.”

The way Cassandra said that word--slowly, deliberately--carried a weight that implied they were anything but. She advanced on Everly, taking measured steps, and Everly realized she was being herded into the corner of the wall, to the right of the line of the practice dummies. From there, the lone tree in the training yard partially obscured them from view. Everly backed up until she was nearly pressed against the stone and tugged at her scarf. Cassandra’s gaze was locked on her, and there was so much happening in her eyes it was impossible to decipher it all. Everly saw heat and want, but also uncertainty. Confusion. When she spoke again, Cassandra’s voice was almost plaintive, yet still with an edge. 

“You think me inattentive. Or perhaps foolish. I have heard the rumors, Everly...that the Maker had seen fit to mark you twice.” She paused and licked her lips. “Is it true? Do you have a soulmark?”

For an instant, Everly thought about lying. And what that lie could buy her. She imagined spinning Cassandra around, pushing her up against the wall, and finally pressing their lips together. She thought about clutching at the short hair at the base of Cassandra’s neck and pulling her braid free. Pulling her closer. Cassandra’s hands digging into Everly’s hips, drawing Everly’s thigh between her legs. 

But it didn’t last. It could not last. All Cassandra had to do was lift Everly’s shirt and draw her fingers across Everly’s hip, touch the slightly raised skin that stretched across her back. Trace a name that, in all probability, was not hers. 

Everly remembered another lesson from her father: fold the cards as soon as you know you can’t win. 

Her silence said more than anything else could, and she was oddly grateful she didn’t have to say anything out loud. Cassandra’s jaw started twitching, her eyes now downcast. She nodded, once, as if considering the veracity of the new information and deeming it accurate. 

“And you’ve met them, I assume,” she said tightly. 

Everly stammered. “I-I--no. Maybe. I am not sure.” 

“How can you not know?”

“It’s complicated.” 

Cassandra snorted dismissively, actually sounding offended. There were rules, she seemed to be implying; that having a mark was perhaps the least complicated thing in the entire world. The least Everly could do was follow along like she was supposed to. But of course Cassandra would cling to a presupposed notion of how things were. This, like everything else, should be as black and white as they came. 

Everly stepped forward clenching her fists. The Anchor flared, matching the anger and frustration rising in her gut. Something precious was slipping away and there was nothing she could do to stop it. And so she lashed out. 

“Do _you_ have a soulmark?” she snapped. 

Cassandra blinked and moved away, avoiding Everly’s eyes. “No. I mean, perhaps. It’s--”

“Complicated.” Everly finished for her. “Isn’t it?

At that, Cassandra fell silent. Then, before Everly had a moment to say anything further, she turned on her heel and walked away. Everly sighed. She spun around, Anchor now crackling to life, and slammed her palm into the cold stone.


	4. The Showdown

The Winter Palace was fucking freezing. 

Cold air slithered in through huge, drafty windows, creeping down the long hallways and into open ballrooms. Despite the chill, Everly found herself sweating. The uniform was stiff and uncomfortable, hardly allowed her to breathe, let alone move. The high collar of the formal jacket dug into her neck. Her thighs were already beginning to chafe from her trousers. She tugged at material around the juncture of her legs as she walked, trying to keep the pants from riding up, but it was no use. Opening the door with one hand, she grabbed at her crotch with the other as she approached the staging area. Josephine shot her a glare. Everly stared right back, giving one more good yank without breaking eye contact. 

Making no effort to hide her agitation, she looked over the assembled party. After a fair amount of deliberation, it had been decided to leave Bull and the Chargers at Skyhold, ostensibly to watch over the fortress. Varric was left to watch over those watching the fortress. Blackwell was in charge of making sure the place didn’t burn down in flames. Sera had flat out refused to attend, hiding in the Undercroft until Everly assured her she wouldn’t have to go. She hadn’t even bothered with Solas.

Six companions had made the journey to Halamshiral, and as Everly considered them in turn, she found herself hating them all for different, irrational reasons. She hated Josephine’s constant corrections, Leliana’s expressionless mask of a face. Cullen’s perfect hair. Vivienne for being utterly in her element at all times, and Dorian for his endless confidence. Most of all, though, it was the sight of Cassandra that drove her mad.

Tall. Statuesque. A perfect picture of knightly poise and strength. Cassandra stood near the head of the line, somehow making the Inquisition dress uniform look both imposing and flattering at the same time. The jacket fit perfectly across her chest, highlighting broad shoulders and her muscular physique, and yet the swell of her hips were accentuated just so. Even the red color complemented her warm brown skin. Everly knew without looking that Cassandra’s trousers were also similarly perfect. The Seeker would have no concerns about unsightly fabric bunching. Suddenly, she was grateful that she would be entering the ballroom first, and therefore wouldn’t be tormented by the view of Cassandra’s backside. 

Everly hurried to take her place at the head of the line, avoiding Cassandra’s gaze. The Seeker and Leliana were standing side-by-side--Cassandra to the right, Leliana to the left, naturally--and she planted herself immediately in front of them both. Grumbling, she smoothed down her hair with both hands. The stubborn cowlick had finally been lacquered into place with the same paste Cullen used. It gave off a sickly sweet aroma and stuck to her fingers. She irritably wiped her palms down the front of her jacket which--unlike her companions--was a deep midnight blue with gold trim. Her hands balled into fists. 

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?” Leliana asked in a low whisper. 

“I’m fine,” Everly said. “Let’s just get this over with.” 

She was definitely _not_ fine. She hadn’t been fine in days. 

The journey to Halamshiral had been excruciating. Heavy, wet snow followed them as soon as they left Skyhold, slowing their travels to a crawl as their wagons and caravans were stymied by massive drifts. Along with the snow came a biting wind that snatched the warmth right out of a person’s chest. Everly did what she could to keep everyone’s spirits up, always hopping down from her mount to help free a trapped caravan or tell a dirty joke to a few groups of soldiers. But the road was long and hard. And every night she crawled into a large, empty tent and freezing bedroll, so cold the brazier lit at her feet barely made a difference. 

Unlike every other time they had traveled together, Cassandra was not sharing a tent with the Inquisitor. Apparently the manner in which the Inquisition traveled to Halamshiral was just as important as attending the ball itself, and accordingly, Everly was afforded sleeping arrangements that befit her position. Which meant a tent at least three times as large as what she usually slept in, assembled with tree trunks so tall she could easily stand without brushing against the top of the canvas. She tried very hard to conceal her disappointment when Josephine had informed her, and bit her tongue so she would not ask where (or with who) the Seeker would be sleeping. Cassandra did not seem interested in discussing the subject. 

In fact, Cassandra was not interested in talking about any subject at all. She spent the entire trip avoiding Everly, with a deliberateness that would seem almost comical if it hadn’t broken Everly’s heart more and more each day. The Seeker only acknowledged Everly when she needed to convey information about setting up camp or rotating guard duty. More often than not, she just relayed those details to Leliana or Cullen. The rest of Cassandra’s time was spent with the soldiers or taking long walks around the perimeter of the camp, despite the blizzarding conditions. Her behavior was so uncharacteristic that even Cullen mentioned it. All Everly could do was nod silently at the observation, as she once again felt herself becoming unmoored. 

It had been like this ever since their conversation in the training yard. Everly couldn’t help but think her worst fears had come to pass. Why would Cassandra react any differently, knowing that Everly almost certainly carried the name of a complete stranger etched in to her skin? That despite all the moments they had shared, the Maker had destined her for someone other than Cassandra? Everly would have properly courted her, too, in the manner that she knew Cassandra would want--flowers, poetry, candlelight--none of which would matter in the end. 

Everly glowered at the heavy oak door directly in front of her. She clasped her hands behind her back and began rocking back and forth on her heels. Over her right shoulder, she heard Cassandra shift her weight and mutter to herself. Leliana snickered. Everly wished she knew what Cassandra had said. 

Perhaps not all hope was lost. Or at least, that was what she had begun telling herself in order to complete the journey to Halamshiral without tearing her all her hair out. Out of desperation, Everly had finally admitted that there might be something to Josephine’s radical “talking it out” suggestion. Once they started on the return journey, she would speak to Cassandra. What she would say or how she would explain herself, she had no idea, but she knew there was something with Cassandra she desperately wanted to salvage. 

Everly sighed. First, she needed to get through this. She set her shoulders and continued to stare at the door. At any moment, they would swing open, the Inquisition’s presence announced with an ear-shattering horn blast, and the Game would begin. Her chest tightened and she began rocking even more on her heels. She knew she needed to be focused on the ball; that her every move was about to be scrutinized and dissected to an impossible degree, and that the Inquisition’s future depended on her performance this evening. But she could _feel_ Cassandra just behind her, so tantalizingly close it was driving her to distraction. Just like it always did. And she couldn’t do a damn thing about it. 

“What’s taking so long?” she said, to no one in particular. “And why the hell am I wearing a different color than everyone else?”

The air shifted. Warm breath brushed against her ear, and for the first time in days Cassandra spoke _to_ her, not _at_ her. 

“Blue brings out your eyes,” she said. 

Before Everly could respond, the door burst open with a loud fanfare and suddenly she was looking into the Grand Ballroom. Heads adorned with glittering masks all turned toward the entrance. Everly was nearly blinded by reflecting light; all she saw was gold and silver and jewels everywhere she looked. Nothing but flaunted, ostentatious wealth. She also sensed a distinct eagerness, a barely-contained excitement directed right at her--as if she were a fox about to be set upon by a pack of bloodthirsty hounds. 

Everly took a breath. She forced Cassandra out of her mind and stepped forward, starting the long walk down the stairs and across the ballroom to where Empress Celene awaited. Her steps were measured and deliberate, just as Josephine instructed. (“For Andraste’s sake, do not _run._ ”) She was sure to keep a pleasant look affixed to her face as everyone in attendance gleefully looked her up and down.

“Lady Inquisitor Evelyn Lee Trevelyan, daughter of Bann Sandor Trevelyan of Ostwick. Shepherd and leash of the wayward Order of Templars, purger of the Heretics from the ranks of the faithful! Champion of the Blessed Andraste Herself!”

Everly almost blanched at the introduction, but caught herself just in time and forced her smile wider. Not only because it was so outlandish, but it was also the first time she had been referred to by her given name in years. It was practically foreign to her. No one ever called her Evelyn--not even when she was a child antagonizing her brothers, not even when she had accepted the title of Inquisitor. It was her mother’s name, and even though she carried that honor with pride, it would always belong to her mother. Besides, _Evelyn Trevelyan_ just sounded ridiculous. Her parents must have really loved each other if her mother had been willing to--

And then Everly realized what was about to happen. 

Cassandra was behind her, and the herald began announcing the Seeker’s presence, just as he did for Everly. And just like Everly, he started to read off her formal name--the names of the Pentaghast royal line. The names written on Everly’s body. 

Seven names she had carried since birth. Seven names stretched across the expanse of her back. Seven names she had been touched with, and an entire lifetime of wondering whether they were blessings or curses. Tonight, she was about to find out which. 

Her vision swam. Her legs became weak, like she was in danger of collapsing at any moment. But she kept moving, kept that idiotic grin plastered across her face, even though with each step she took, another name was called out. That matched the name on her back. In the correct order. Her skin burned under her coat, as if with every name that was announced her mark ignited in response, the name of her soulmate now alive and blazing for the whole world to see. 

“Lady Seeker Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena--” 

“Oh, get on with it!”

For _fuck’s_ sake. 

The herald paused, but recovered quickly and pivoted from Cassandra’s name to listing her official titles and accomplishments. The wind rushed out of Everly’s lungs. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck, to the high collar of her coat. She clenched her teeth and tightened her fists, resisting the urge to tear off the garment. (“Keep your jacket buttoned! And no fidgeting!”)

“Lady Inquisitor, we welcome you to the Winter Palace.” Empress Celene acknowledged her with a skeptical look. Or at least, Everly was pretty sure that was the look she got--the damn mask made it impossible to tell. By some miracle, she was able to tap into a previously unknown well of restraint and managed a respectful half-bow, even has she heard Cassandra’s heavy boots behind her. 

“I am delighted to be here, Your Majesty.” Everly kept smiling, certain her face was about to split in half. 

Celene inclined her head ever so slightly, appearing pleased. “We have heard much of your exploits, Inquisitor. How do you find Halamshiral?”

“I’ve never seen anything to equal the Winter Palace,” Everly said pleasantly. 

A wry grin curled at the corner of Celene’s mouth, and she made a point of appraising Everly up and down. “I hope you find time to take in some of its beauty. Feel free to enjoy the pleasure of the ballroom, Inquisitor. I look forward to watching you...dance.” 

The way Celene’s voice dropped into a purr made Everly’s hair stand on end. It was less a seductive overture and more like a predator toying with its captured prey. Everly only nodded in response and offered a deep bow, heart pounding and throat dry, still painfully aware of all the eyes trained in her direction. 

The moment Celene turned away a strong hand clamped around Everly’s arm just above the elbow and dragged her towards a secluded corner. 

“Your given name is _Evelyn?_ ” Cassandra growled, low and accusatory. 

Without thinking, Everly spun out of the grip and slammed her hands into Cassandra’s chest, hard enough to force the Seeker back one full step. “So fucking what it if is?” she snapped, a little too loudly. 

A handful of masks immediately turned at the sound, the corner they were standing in not nearly as secluded as Cassandra apparently thought. A wave of excited tittering rolled through the ballroom. The attendees began to inch closer, greedily listening. 

“If you would have just kept quiet for one damn minute, I could have had this all figured out by now!” Everly hissed, trying to keep her voice down but knowing she was failing. The excuse she needed had finally presented itself, and now she was free to attack the source of her anguish--the person whose mere existence threatened to drive her to sheer madness. “You think this is simple, do you? That the Maker just lays everything out on a neat little path for you to follow--” 

Everly stopped when she saw Cassandra’s eyes widen and begin to glisten. Cassandra quickly turned her head, the muscles in that strong, perfect jaw twitching. Everly exhaled, trying to steady herself, then blinked. “Wait, why-why does my name matter to you?”

Cassandra remained silent. She crossed her arms and glared fiercely at the wall, clenching her teeth. She seemed oblivious to the growing crowd, a snarl on her lips as she fought back tears. 

Everly swallowed hard and inched closer, feeling dangerously close to crying herself. “Cass...the herald...before you interrupted him, was there one more name he was going to say?” Her voice broke in desperation. “Was it...Tigana?” 

The next thing Everly saw was Leliana. The spymaster materialized out of nowhere, planting herself between the two of them. She remained expressionless but her voice was cold fire. 

“Not. Here.” She gripped Everly’s arm and spun her away from Cassandra. 

Everly tried to protest, but Leliana cut her off and lead her into the center of the ballroom, far away from the corner she and CAssandra were in. Gold and silver blurred together as she was suddenly encircled by a group of nobles eager to introduce themselves. Leliana’s fingers dug into the pressure point of her elbow, and Everly’s smile immediately reappeared. She nodded and made pleasantries, even as she heard none-too-quiet whispers about the display they had just witnessed. As casually as she could, Everly scanned the room, looking past the masks. 

Cassandra was gone. 

***

The fireplace was absolutely raging. Everly had stoked to its full capacity and then some. Angry flames surged dangerously close to a fine, intricately detailed rug lying on the floor. The sound of popping and cracking logs echoed through the cavernous chambers, warm air steadily rising. The sleeping quarters Celene had given her were the largest and most luxurious she had ever experienced, but she didn’t care. All she wanted was to drive out the cold. 

Everly stood at the bureau next to the fireplace, plunging her hands into a basin of red-tinted water. The water had been warm and steaming when it first arrived, but now was barely even room temperature. Her jacket was tossed carelessly onto the overstuffed chair next to her, which was adorned with an elaborate pattern stitched into the upholstery. The dark blue sleeves were stained purple at the cuffs. Blood had seeped into the tunic she wore underneath, and that had been discarded onto the chair as well. She wore only her usual undershirt--the thin material now soaked with sweat and stretched tightly across her back--and her dress trousers. Her boots lay haphazardly in the corner by the door, crusts of dried blood stuck to the heels. Everly gritted her teeth as she scrubbed her hands with a small, rough piece of cloth. 

The Orliasians certainly enjoyed a show. 

After discovering Florianne’s intentions and closing the rift in the Royal Wing, Everly, Cassandra, Vivienne, and Dorian had burst into the ballroom to confront the Grand Duchess. Every single person in attendance had watched in rapt attention as Everly stole center stage, eloquently exposing the Duchess and her machinations It had been the most comfortable she had felt all evening. She had recovered from the earlier scene with Cassandra by charming enough people that when she finished, there was no question as to Florianne’s guilt. Or whose side the crowd was on. 

The dagger had been concealed beneath the flowing material of Florianne’s ballgown. Everly had only seen a brief flash, steel glinting in the light of the ornate lamps, and reacted without thought. Her own hunting knife, which she refused to leave Skyhold without, was strapped to her left forearm. In two deft movements, she had sidestepped Florianne’s attack and plunged the knife into her side. The blade easily slipped in between the boning of her corset, through her ribs, piercing Florianne’s lung. Everly did it twice more. She watched as the eyes behind the sparkling gold mask went dim. 

There hadn’t been a sound. Just like Leliana had taught her. 

After that, resolving the dispute over the Orlesian throne was practically a formality. With indisputable evidence as to the nature of Celene’s relationship with Briala, it was easy to manipulate the situation--all they needed was a gentle push towards each other. It was a simple enough task after having earlier told Briala about the locket. Everly had spoken softly about how they deserved happiness, as she wiped blood from her hands with a silk handkerchief. 

And then, the rest of the night had been spent fending off admirers and suitors, and retelling the story of Florianne’s treason for those who weren’t lucky enough to see the full view. All while the Duchess’s blood dried under her nails. 

Everly continued to scrub her hands, biting back her disgust. These people had treated it all like nothing more than a _play_ , like it was all just some frivolous entertainment. No one had even paused long enough to mark the passing of a member of the royal family. The manner of Florianne’s death just made it even more of a spectacle, and the palpable glee with which Everly had been asked to recount the details just made her sick. And now the remains of Florianne’s blood stubbornly refused to wash away. 

She slammed her fists into the basin with an explosive curse, splashing water all over the bureau and down the front of her shirt. Almost at the same time, there was a knock on her door. 

“What?” Everly barked, without thinking.

Silently, the door opened and Cassandra slid into the room. She carried a basin of her own, filled with steaming water, and a fresh towel tossed over her shoulder. Everly immediately looked away, staring fiercely into the pink water. She began grinding her knuckles against the bottom of the basin. 

They hadn’t had an opportunity to speak the entire evening. All night, Cassandra’s non-answer at the Ball had weighed on Everly’s mind, but there was nothing to be done. Every time she thought she had an opening to finally corner Cassandra, she was interrupted by yet another entitled duke or duchess, insistent upon droning on about some social matter that Everly could not have cared less about. Cassandra made several efforts of her own to approach Everly but was also intercepted. Mostly it had been Josephine that kept the Seeker at bay, staring daggers at them both whenever she could, still livid from their earlier scene. Fighting the rift didn’t help either, yet Everly was keenly aware of how close Cassandra kept near her during the battle, never letting her get more than an arm’s reach away. 

Everly cleared her throat, but kept her head down. “I should apologize for earlier. I didn’t mean what I said. I really didn’t. It was rude and inappropriate and I just...I just need a moment, if you wouldn’t mind…” Her voice suddenly failed her, and she found herself biting back tears. She began to shake. She clenched her teeth, willing herself to stop. Her body refused to listen. 

Cassandra didn’t speak. She walked over to the bureau, moved the cold, half-empty basin aside, and replaced it with the one she carried. Everly slowly unfurled her hands and sank them into the hot water, the Anchor crackling softly beneath the surface. Cassandra slipped her a small piece of soap. Everly gently ran it over her hands, wincing at the fresh scrapes on her knuckles. Cassandra stood next to her as she worked, reaching up to squeeze her shoulder. 

“You did well tonight.” Her voice was soft, with that same gentleness that Everly always found surprising. Cassandra’s other hand brushed against her forearm. 

Everly swallowed hard. A picture of Florianne burst forth in her mind; the Duchess’s mouth forming a surprised, silent ‘o’ as Everly drove the knife into her chest, eyes dead and flat in contrast with the glitter of her mask. She stared intently at the soap in her palms and tried to push the image away. 

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” she whispered. Almost immediately, she regretted the admission. 

Killing in battle was something Everly had come to accept reluctantly. It was a necessity, she understood, but she preferred to stay on the perimeter. Attacking from yards away suited both her skill and personality. She was not built to wade into violence the way Cassandra and Bull and Blackwell were, with such abandon and (at times) palpable glee. Never before had Everly taken someone’s life so up close. She meant to take Florianne into custody only, but then the Duchess had attacked before the guards had a chance to apprehend her, and Everly’s hand had been forced. Forced into one more spectacle for the sake of the Game. Forced into being a person she didn’t want to be. 

Weak. She was _weak_. In so many ways. She had been tasked to make hard decisions, to accomplish that which the rest of Thedas was unwilling or unable to do. Yet here she was, nearly ill and trembling like a child. She couldn't even bring herself to have a simple conversation with the person who had meant the most to her over the past months. Water splashed over the side of the basin and as she kept scrubbing, even though the rest of the blood had washed away. 

Cassandra’s palm slid down her arm and pressed over both of Everly’s hands, stilling the frenetic movement. Her other hand remained on Everly’s shoulder. “Steady now,” she said. “I do not wish for you to ever be comfortable with taking life. Once you do, it becomes far too easy.” She paused, then her voice dipped low. “That is not who you are.” 

Everly closed her eyes and let out a long sigh. Beneath the water, Cassandra’s hand curled over hers, her thumb moving in slow circles. Everly heard a small noise in her ear as Cassandra touched the fresh scrapes on her knuckles. The Anchor fell dormant. 

And then, like so many times before, the air shifted and Everly felt as if a spell had been cast. Neither of them spoke. For a moment, the awkwardness of the past week was forgotten and Everly allowed herself to indulge. She pressed into Cassandra, leaning the side of her head towards Cassandra’s face, as Cassandra’s other hand slipped from her shoulder to the back of her neck. Soft lips hovered just over her ear, and she heard Cassandra’s warm voice again. 

“Steady.” 

Everly’s breathing slowed. The tension that she didn’t realize had crept up her neck released under Cassandra’s hand. Florianne finally drifted away, and Everly’s mind returned to the question she had been avoiding for months. Her throat began to tighten. 

Sweet Andraste, please. Let it be Cassandra. 

The towel suddenly appeared. Everly roughly dried her hands and forearms, then exhaled and turned to face her. Cassandra looked pensive, as she had all evening, a whirl of barely-concealed emotion flashing in her dark eyes. But despite any apprehension she may have been feeling, she reached out and took Everly’s hand. A spark ignited in Everly’s chest. At least, if she had truly lost--if the cards were not in her favor--she would still have these moments with Cassandra, brief as they were. Small pieces of treasure she could bury deep within, and after time passed, look upon fondly. A reminder of when Everly thought she had drawn the hand that would’ve beat anything. 

“I prefer Everly,” Cassandra said, the words falling out in a rush. “For what it’s worth. It suits you.” 

“I’ve never gone by anything else. I think I was to be named after some great aunt somewhere, but my mother died the day after I was born, and I guess my father wanted her name to live on, in a way. He never called me ‘Evelyn’, though. Neither did my brothers.” Everly grinned. “I suppose I should consider myself lucky.” 

“Why’s that?”

“The only great aunt I knew of was named Brunhilde.”

Cassandra laughed as she squeezed her hand. The bright, cheerful sound filled the entire room, and Everly felt like her heart was about to burst. As her laugh gradually faded and Cassandra’s demeanor turned serious, Everly was certain the glint of amusement remained in her hazel eyes. 

“Do you remember when I told you I was having visions? About my vigil?” Cassandra asked.

“Yes, of course.”

Cassandra exhaled heavily. “I was not entirely truthful with you about my return to Haven. I did go there to recreate my vigil, but not just because of what I had discovered about the Rite of Tranquility. Reading the Seeker tome had also triggered a memory of something. It was nothing more than a whisper in the back of my mind, but it was there. I was sure of it. While I was at Haven, I discovered what it was.”

Cassandra paused here, brow furrowing in the same manner as when she had been pouring over the book at camp, her face lit by firelight. “While I was reading the tome, I realized that I remembered being touched by the spirit of faith so many years ago. The spirit had appeared before me, wreathed in bright, shining light, and I heard its voice inside my head. It said that it had a gift for me. And then it told me a name.”

“A na-name?” 

“Yes,” Cassandra said, then let out a sharp, dry bark of laughter. “Of course, in my delirium, I had completely forgotten about it. As you know, I had no idea that was what I had experienced--what all Seekers experienced. But once I read the tome and discovered the truth of the vigil, I knew there was something more to that memory. And so I went to Haven. And I prayed and fasted and meditated, but I could only remember part of the name the spirit gave me--Evelyn.”

Hearing her given name in Cassandra’s rich, thick accent sent a jolt down Everly’s spine. The implications of what she was saying were even more jarring, and Everly began to shake again. “So you must--must have a…” she clutched at Cassandra’s hand as if it were a lifeline. 

A pained looked crossed Cassandra’s face, but she continued. “There is a scar--a mark--on my leg. I’ve had it ever since I was born. Both my brother and uncle told me it was just a birthmark. As I got older, I questioned if that was really true, but my uncle always refused to discuss it with me. 

“After Anthony died I was consumed with little else but revenge. And then I joined the Seekers and threw myself into my studies. I barely thought about it. And eventually, it became like it was never even there.” Cassandra bit her lip and glanced away. “I would never know the truth, so there was no point in dwelling on whether I was marked or not. The idea of a soulmate...it was fantasy. Nothing more.” 

Tears burned at the corners of Everly’s eyes, but she bit them back as harshly as she could. She said the next part very carefully, as if she were about to give an oath and every word needed to be said in precise order. 

“Cassandra. I know the herald was about to say another name before you stopped him. Was it Tigana?”

The muscles in Cassandra’s jaw twitched as she clenched her teeth, but as hard as she fought, tears began slowly rolling down her cheeks. “Yes,” she said, swiping roughly at her face with open palms. “That was my mother’s name.” 

Relief poured through Everly as all the air rushed out of her lungs and her knees almost buckled. She felt herself empty out completely--there was no more thought, no pain, no past, her whole life distilled to the sight of Cassandra standing in front of her, dark eyes wide and glistening. Somehow, Everly stepped forward, closing the space between them. With a boldness that had always escaped her before, she pulled Cassandra into a fierce kiss. 

There was a moment beyond time, where everything stopped, and Everly almost panicked. After all this, had she still been mistaken? But then Cassandra pressed closer and cupped Everly’s face, pulling them both deeper into the kiss. Everly clawed at the collar of Cassandra’s shirt, vaguely aware of the fabric slowly tearing beneath her hands. The Anchor began to come alive, sparking in Everly’s palm, but she ignored it and leaned in closer to Cassandra, drinking in as much as she could.

When they finally broke apart, Cassandra’s hand slipped to the back of Everly’s head and she pressed their foreheads together. Strong fingers stroked through her hair. “It’s true?” she whispered against Everly’s lips, voice breaking. 

All Everly could do was nod in response. She kissed the corner of Cassandra’s mouth, near her scar, tasting salt from her tears. 

“May...may I see it?”

Everly pulled back just enough to look into imploring eyes. She forced her hands to unwind from Cassandra’s collar. Letting out a long, slow breath, Everly reached down and pulled off her shirt, stretching her arms overhead. It fell to the floor, pooling at her feet. Then she unwound her breast binding and turned around. 

Flames still raged in the fireplace, and the room was almost stiflingly hot. But still, Everly’s skin prickled as she stood with her back to Cassandra, brazenly displaying her soulmark for the first time. She began twisting the binding still in her hands, as if she were wringing water from it, unsure of Cassandra’s reaction. Fingertips lightly grazed her back; hard, callused pads tracing the lettering all the way to Everly’s hip. 

“I cannot believe it,” Cassandra whispered again, voice so hoarse it was as if she had gravel in her throat. “It’s not possible.” 

The Anchor sparked again as Everly dropped the binding. “Yes, it’s real. It’s always been real.” 

A choked sob came from just over her shoulder. Then Cassandra’s strong arms were around her, hugging so tightly her breath was once again stolen from her, lips brushing against her ear. Soft, yet insistent kisses trailed down Everly’s neck and across the back of her shoulder, pausing right where the soulmark started at the very edge of her collarbone. The arms holding her trembled, as if barely holding something back. Every shuddered. Cassandra hovered just over her shoulder, warm breath tickling sensitive skin. And then, after what seemed like eternity, Cassandra bent her head and grazed her teeth over the mark.

If there had ever been a way back, a way to stop, it was gone forever. 

Every emotion Everly had felt since first hearing Cassandra’s name, since first laying eyes on her, surged through her like lightning. She spun around and crushed her mouth against Cassandra’s. For a moment they were both lost, grasping and clutching at each other, nearly drowning, until Cassandra pushed Everly towards the bed. The back of her knees hit the frame and Everly tumbled backward. Cassandra followed, trying not to break the kiss. Their heads bumped awkwardly as Cassandra landed on top and she immediately pulled away, wearing a look of sheer terror. Everly just laughed then abruptly shifted her hips, taking advantage of Cassandra’s distraction to flip her onto her back. A small, surprised yelp dissolved into a moan. Grinning, Everly bit gently at Cassandra’s bottom lip. 

Somehow amongst the twisted sheets and blankets, they managed to shed the rest of their clothes. Reaching blindly, Cassandra found the Anchor and squeezed, heedless of the magic crackling in Everly’s palm. Everly squeezed back. Her other hand dug into Cassandra’s hip, then trailed over the crease of her thigh and down between her legs. They began moving in concert, pressing so close they shared the same pulse. All Everly knew was Cassandra’s skin, her touch, her taste, her voice as she breathed two words over and over again: _my love._

***

The fire had finally burned down, leaving only a few charred hunks of wood lazily glowing in the stone fireplace. Already the cold was seeping in, and more fuel would need to be added ward off the drafts for the remainder of the evening. And Everly could not have cared less at the moment. 

She was laying on her side, propped up on her elbow. Cassandra was next to her, half-rolled onto her stomach, one lean leg stretched out and displaying the discolored patch of skin on her thigh. Whatever method that had been used to remove Cassandra’s mark had been incredibly thorough and incredibly precise-- there was no scarring to speak of, no evidence that a name had ever existed. All that remained was a rectangular patch lighter than the rest of of her thigh. It was as if someone had just neatly wiped away a layer of skin. Fascinated, Everly couldn’t stop running the tips of her fingers over it again and again, trying to reassure herself her name had in fact been there. 

“I have no memory of it.” 

Everly looked up. Cassandra’s accent was thicker than usual, the long vowels dripping like honey. She watched Everly through heavy-lidded eyes. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips. 

“It still must have been painful.” Everly realized she was frowning. 

Cassandra reached down to tangle her fingers in Everly’s hair. “I’m sure it was. But that was very long time ago.” 

“Do you know who did it?”

“I do not.” Cassandra’s eyes flashed ever so briefly, but then turned liquid again. “I suspect it was my uncle. As a Mortalitasi he would have had the skill to do it. I assumed that was part of his reticence to discuss the matter.”

Everly frowned again and turned back to the mark. She leaned in closer, searching for a ghost of a hint of her name still somewhere on Cassandra’s skin. There was nothing. Disappointed flared in her chest, despite her best intentions at keeping the feeling at bay. Everly couldn’t deny that there was a not-insignificant part of her that wished Cassandra was still marked in the same fashion she was. 

“You never spoke of it to him?” she asked, dipping her head to kiss the edge of the mark. 

Cassandra inhaled sharply, tightening her grip on Everly’s hair. “We hardly spoke at all.” 

“Mmm.” 

Everly decided to drop that line of questioning and shifted her focus to the soft, warm skin beneath her lips. She began planting a trail of kisses along Cassandra’s thigh and up to her hip, tossing in an occasional nibble that was rewarded with a shiver. When Everly tried to nudge her face between Cassandra’s legs and urge her onto her back, Cassandra let out a warm laugh and pulled Everly up by her hair. 

“Insatiable,” Cassandra said. Her voice was so low it was almost a purr as she drew them into a deep kiss. Everly felt Cassandra’s tongue swipe across her lower lip and she practically whimpered, knowing what Cassandra was tasting on Everly’s lips. When they parted, Everly was left so dazed and breathless she hardly knew where she was. As she gasped for air, the smile on Cassandra’s face turned decidedly more satisfied. 

But then her eyes darkened, a shadow had passing over her face. Cassandra trailed her fingers down Everly’s cheek and across her jaw, then down her throat to her collarbone. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” she asked. 

Everly swallowed, her throat closing in. Cassandra searched her face, waiting for an answer, and as Everly looked back at her the truth finally tumbled out.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I was so afraid it wouldn’t be you. And I thought the longer I avoided it, the more time I could have with you. I knew the moment I told you everything would be different. Even if we weren’t meant to be together, I could still…” Everly trailed off, her excuse sounding even weaker as she spoke it aloud.

Cassandra cocked her head. For a moment she appeared genuinely confused. “You had to have known there was something between us.” Her brow furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “At least, that was what Leliana kept claiming. At first I thought she was just filling my head with nonsense.” 

Everly rolled onto her back and sighed, staring at the ceiling. Briefly, she wondered what role Leliana had played in all this; they had only spoken of her mark once, and there was no indication the spymaster had ever discovered the full name on Everly’s back. But then again, Everly knew well enough never, ever to make assumptions when it came to Leliana. She pushed the thought aside as she struggled again to offer an explanation. 

“When I was younger, my father and I researched it. The mark, I mean. We looked at all the naming conventions of all the Nevarran royal families. There was just so many, and your name was one of the most common ones.” The growing chill in the room finally reached her and she sat up abruptly, fumbling for the covers. She began babbling. “And you--you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen! I mean, you _are._ You _are_ the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. The chance that you would have the same name as my--it was impossible!”

Everly huffed as she tried to untangle the blankets twisted beneath them. Really, it had always been a simple matter of mathematics, of the sheer size of the Pentaghast lineage, and she was just being _cautious--_

Suddenly she was on her back again, Cassandra’s warm, firm body pressing down on her. The chill was gone instantly, and Everly’s pulse spiked as callused fingers touched her face again. Cassandra’s cheeks were flushed a deep red, but her smile was back now, almost teasing. 

“No, not impossible,” Cassandra said. “You told me yourself.” 

Everly squirmed underneath her. “But you don’t understand, the odds that you and I--”

“Hush.” Cassandra put her fingertips to Everly’s mouth, silencing her. “You think too much about games. Concerning yourself with what card you will draw next, the odds of winning the next hand. Always trying to stay one step ahead. Perhaps,” she gently traced traced the contours of Everly’s lips as she spoke, “I could teach you a different strategy.”

“And what’s that?”

Cassandra arched a brow and leaned in closer.

“Play _me,_ not the damn odds.” 

***

“Move it!”

Everly shoved her way into the tavern, putting her entire weight into a massive corporal she barely knew. He didn’t budge. Must be one of Cullen’s newer recruits, she assumed. Whoever he was, he stood as tall as the door and nearly twice as wide Next to him was another soldier, almost as large, both peering over the crowd to catch a glimpse of the table where the action was to begin--once the Inquisitor arrived, of course. She put her full weight into the soldier and finally he budged, looking down in mild curiosity at whoever was trying to shove past. A flash of green, followed by a nasty scowl, and both he and his companion scampered out of the way. 

She wondered who the hell had decided to make this public, and then immediately felt sorry for that person once their identity was discovered. It was supposed to be a small, quiet, _discreet_ card game between Varric and Cassandra, but apparently this was spectacle enough to capture all of Skyhold’s attention. Soft murmurs of anticipation rippled through the crowd, excited whispers punctuated by sudden yelps of surprise as Everly forced her way towards the table, stomping on any feet unlucky enough to be in her way. She finally reached her seat, greeted by a round of cheering and applause, made an exaggerated show of straightening her jacket, and sat down in a huff. 

Granted, the card game itself _had_ been her idea. Cassandra immediately blanched at the suggestion, but Everly had pointed out that there would be nothing more satisfying than beating Varric at his own game. Ever since they had all returned from the Winter Palace, the dwarf had been holding onto the latest “Swords  & Shields” chapter like a hostage, and his increasingly aggravating demands was making for an increasingly aggravated Cassandra. Finally winning a game of cards would guarantee Cassandra custody of the book, as well as a reprieve from Varric’s shenanigans. And, of course, Everly had promised that she would be there and that Cassandra would have nothing to worry about. 

Everly caught Varric’s glace first as she pulled out her deck of cards. He favored her with a smug smile, his plan now obvious. By making the challenge public--or floating some rumors and letting a few choice people do the rest--he had invited a level of scrutiny to the proceedings that Everly hadn’t anticipated. Originally, her plan had just been to feed Cassandra the cards she needed and hope that she remained patient enough to build the best hand. Now, with a group gathered so closely around the table, it would be that much harder to deal from the bottom of the deck without getting caught. Everly shot him a pointed look. 

(Not that she ever condoned cheating, of course, but this was a unique circumstance. Everly figured Varric had forfeited any right to complain when he was the one who was being so damn difficult about a bet he had lost fair and square. Plus, it was for Cassandra. And there was nothing in all the world she wouldn’t do for Cassandra.) 

She let out a breath, steadying herself before glancing over to the other side of the table. Everly still had to do that, prepare for that moment when she first would lay eyes on Cassandra after not having seen her for an entire day. Cassandra had always been breathtaking, but after their night together at Halamshiral, Everly found herself constantly staggered by her beauty. Sometimes to the point where she couldn’t even bring herself to speak or move. Cassandra would just smack Everly’s arm and scold her for staring, even as she tried not to smile. 

Cassandra sat across from Varric, arms folded across her chest, giving the dwarf such a searing glare Everly was surprised he hadn’t been burnt to a crisp. Her eyes flicked over to Everly and softened ever so slightly, just enough that only the person she was looking at would realize it. Everly bit her bottom lip and tried not to blush. 

Excited whispers bubbled up through the crowd again. Everly overheard several people making bets under their breath. The cards slid between her fingers easily, and she began performing. 

“Alright everyone,” she said, raising her voice to project throughout the tavern. She cut the deck with one hand as she spoke. “We are here to settle a disagreement between the Seeker and Master Tethras. The details of said disagreement are inconsequential; what matters is that it can only be decided by an exhibition of skill.” 

Everly fanned the deck out in her hands, then snapped her wrist and folded the cards back up again. She pulled the top card off the deck with her index finger, and in one motion, flicked it into mid air and caught it with her other hand. Then she shot the card back into the deck and bridged the cards into the opposite hand with a flourish, a spark of green flashing as she caught them in her palm. A few whoops and cheers of approval came up from the spectators. 

“Show off,” Cassandra grumbled under her breath. 

Everly just started shuffling. “Now, as Inquisitor, it is my solemn duty to oversee this event, and ensure that it is settled in an equitable manner. As such, both participants have agreed to yield to my authority. Correct?”

She smiled brightly at each one of them in turn. Cassandra nodded sharply, wearing a look of such fierce determination that Everly had to stop from launching herself across the table and kissing her right there. Varric grinned and saluted in response. 

“Very well,” Everly said. “Best of three hands. Dealer’s choice and the game is...Shepherd’s Six.” 

Cassandra laughed. Varric’s face fell, and he immediately let out a load groan, earning a laugh from the crowd. Someone called out a wager, placing three coppers on the Seeker. People began to follow suit and soon bets were flying across the tavern. From just over Varric’s shoulder, Everly spied Josephine and Leliana talking together in the corner, both looking right at Everly. Leliana leaned over to whisper in Josephine’s ear, and the ambassador gave her a wink. 

Everly ducked her head and grinned. She looked at the deck in her hand, listening to all the different manner of wagers going on around her. For the first time that she could remember, she was wasn’t thinking about the odds. Instead, Everly just dealt.


End file.
